Eli didn't tell anyone.
Not about the frozen time.
Not about the bending stars.
Not about the feeling that something vast had noticed him.
He went to work.
Answered emails.
Laughed when he was supposed to.
Pretended.
Because at 6:30 PM, like every Thursday, he had somewhere more important to be.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and quiet hope.
Room 417.
He knocked softly and pushed the door open.
"Hey, superstar."
Maya looked up from her bed, smiling like she wasn't connected to three machines and a slow-beeping monitor.
"You're late," she said.
"Traffic," Eli replied.
Lie.
He'd been sitting in his car outside, trying to calm the strange pull he'd been feeling all day — like gravity was wrong, slightly tilted toward him.
Maya patted the chair beside her bed. He sat.
She was only sixteen, but illness had made her small, fragile — like life had turned her volume down.
"Did you bring it?" she asked.
He pulled a small sketchbook from his bag.
Her favorite thing.
She couldn't travel, so he drew places for her.
Tonight's drawing: a beach at sunset, waves glowing orange, birds frozen mid-flight.
She frowned.
"…Why are the birds not moving?"
Eli blinked.
"I—"
He looked at the drawing.
The birds really were frozen. Perfectly still. Too still.
A chill slid down his spine.
"I must've drawn it weird."
Maya studied him.
"You look tired."
"I'm fine."
She tilted her head. She'd always seen through him, even when they were kids.
"You feel… far away," she said softly.
The room lights flickered.
Eli froze.
Not again. Not here.
The heart monitor beside her skipped a beat — just one — then corrected itself.
But Eli heard something else.
A pressure.
Like the air in the room was being weighed by something invisible.
He grabbed the sides of the chair.
Stay calm.
Maya reached out and held his hand.
Her hand was warm.
Human.
Real.
The pressure eased instantly.
The lights steadied.
The machines returned to normal rhythm.
Eli stared at their hands.
The air around him stopped shimmering.
"See?" she said. "You just needed grounding."
He forced a smile.
Grounding.
That's what she'd always been.
When their parents died, he held everything together for her.
When she got sick, she was the one who stayed positive.
When he felt lost, she made the world simple again.
Now the universe itself felt like it was sliding off its axis…
…and she was the only thing keeping him here.
That night, after she fell asleep, Eli stepped into the hallway.
The pull returned immediately.
Stronger.
Like the sky itself was leaning toward him.
He looked out the hospital window.
The stars were brighter than they should be.
Too close.
Then every light in the city flickered.
Phones buzzed.
Car alarms triggered.
Above the clouds, something massive shifted — unseen by most.
But not by him.
A presence pressing against reality.
Watching.
Waiting.
And for the first time, Eli felt it clearly:
It wasn't just observing him.
It was measuring what he cared about.
A whisper moved through spacetime:
"Emotional anchor detected."
"Probability of restraint: 87%."
"Target identified."
Eli's chest tightened.
He didn't know why.
But deep down, instinct screamed a truth older than language:
The universe had just found his weak point.
And it would come for her.