Ayush knew something was wrong the moment he entered the classroom.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't obvious.
It was the silence.
Students were present, desks occupied, bags tossed aside—but the usual noise was missing. No pointless arguments, no laughter spilling over benches. Everyone sat strangely alert, like they were waiting for something to begin.
Or someone.
Ayush took his seat slowly.
Neel leaned toward him. "Do you feel that?"
Ayush nodded. "Like the room is… listening."
Before Neel could respond, the classroom door opened.
A girl stepped inside.
She wasn't new—at least, that's what Ayush's memory insisted. Her name was Riya. Same uniform. Same school badge. Same place in the attendance register.
Yet Ayush was certain of one thing.
He had never noticed her before.
She walked calmly to an empty seat near the window and sat down. No hesitation. No curiosity. As if she already knew exactly where she belonged.
The teacher entered seconds later and began the lecture without acknowledging her arrival.
Ayush leaned closer to Neel. "Was she here yesterday?"
Neel frowned. "I… think so?"
That uncertainty sent a chill through Ayush.
Throughout the lecture, Ayush couldn't focus. His eyes kept drifting toward Riya. She wasn't doing anything strange—just listening, taking notes—but something about her presence felt deliberate.
Then she turned and looked directly at him.
Not curious.
Not surprised.
Aware.
Ayush looked away instantly, heart pounding.
Observers notice the shift first.
The words from the screen echoed in his mind.
When the bell rang, students rushed out. Ayush gathered his bag slowly, waiting.
Riya stood up and walked toward him.
"Hi, Ayush," she said.
His breath caught.
"…Do I know you?"
She smiled faintly. "That depends. Do you remember writing me?"
The hallway noise faded into a dull blur.
"I didn't—" Ayush stopped himself. "What are you talking about?"
Riya studied his face carefully, like she was reading something beneath his words.
"You feel it too," she said quietly. "The delays. The repetitions. The way things don't line up anymore."
Ayush swallowed. "You shouldn't be saying this."
She tilted her head. "You shouldn't have crossed the boundary."
That word again.
"Who are you?" Ayush asked.
"Someone who noticed before everyone else," Riya replied. "Someone who remembers the earlier version."
Ayush's pulse raced. "Earlier version of what?"
"Of this," she said, gesturing around them. "Before your truth unlocked progression."
Ayush stepped back. "You know about that?"
Riya's eyes softened—not kindly, but knowingly.
"I know you didn't mean for it to spread," she said. "But stories don't stay contained once observers awaken."
Ayush felt dizzy.
"You said you remember an earlier version. What changed?"
Riya hesitated. Just for a moment.
"People used to hesitate more," she said. "Choices mattered longer. Now… events feel guided."
Guided.
Like a script.
Ayush's phone buzzed. A message from Neel.
Neel: Bro. People are saying weird things.
Neel: Like they're repeating lines.
Neel: Is this because of you?
Ayush didn't reply.
He looked back at Riya. "Why can you see this?"
"Because I wasn't written to act," she said. "I was written to watch."
Ayush's chest tightened. "I didn't write you."
Riya smiled again, but this time it felt sad.
"No," she agreed. "You didn't."
The realization hit him hard.
"You existed… before the journal," he whispered.
Riya nodded. "Before this draft."
Ayush's thoughts raced. "Then why me? Why now?"
Riya met his gaze. "Because you're not the first writer."
The world tilted.
"What?"
She lowered her voice. "Others came before you. They shaped. They controlled. They failed."
Ayush's mind flashed back to the journal.
The warnings.
The edits he didn't make.
"Then who's in charge now?" he asked.
Riya stepped closer.
"No one," she said. "That's the problem."
A sharp bell rang in the distance—too loud, too sudden. Students froze for a second before continuing, unaware of the glitch.
Riya turned toward the exit. "They'll notice more soon."
"Wait," Ayush said. "What happens then?"
She paused at the door.
"Observers become participants," she said. "And participants demand answers."
She looked back one last time.
"You should decide what kind of writer you're going to be—
before the story decides for you."
Then she walked away.
Ayush stood frozen, the weight of her words pressing down on him.
This wasn't just about control anymore.
Or guilt.
Or truth.
It was about responsibility.
Because the story was no longer his alone.