James met Ada at the café.
On purpose.
He told himself it was part of the experiment, that avoiding her had already proven dangerous. Distance delayed her death, but it sharpened her awareness. Proximity, at least, was predictable.
Or so he hoped.
She was already there when he arrived, seated at the same table, hands wrapped around the same mug. But something about her posture was different. Straighter. More alert. Like she had been waiting longer than she should have.
"You're on time today," Ada said.
James stopped short. "I usually am."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Not today. Today you're exactly on time."
His stomach tightened.
He sat down slowly. "You okay?"
Ada tilted her head, studying him with unsettling focus. "That's my question."
The waitress approached before he could answer, placing his coffee on the table.
"No sugar," she said.
James didn't react.
Ada did.
She glanced at the cup, then at him. "You didn't order yet."
The waitress laughed. "He always gets the same thing."
Ada's fingers tightened around her mug.
James felt it then—a shift, subtle but undeniable. Like the air had learned a new shape.
After the waitress left, Ada leaned closer. "I had a dream," she said quietly.
James forced himself to breathe. "What kind of dream?"
"You weren't in it," she replied. "At first."
He waited.
She continued, eyes never leaving his. "I was standing somewhere dark. I couldn't move. I kept calling your name, but you didn't answer. Then suddenly… you were there. Watching me."
Cold crept into his veins.
"Watching how?" he asked.
"Like you were deciding something," Ada said. "Like whether I was worth saving."
James swallowed. "It was just a dream."
"Was it?" she asked.
They sat in silence, the clink of cups and low hum of conversation filling the space between them.
Then Ada said, "Do you believe in patterns?"
James's gaze snapped back to her.
"I mean," she went on casually, stirring her drink, "some people think the universe repeats itself. That events echo. That if something happens once, it's more likely to happen again."
His pulse thudded in his ears.
"That sounds like superstition," he said carefully.
Ada smiled faintly. "You always say that."
Always.
James stood abruptly. "We should go."
Ada blinked. "What? We just got here."
"I have work," he said. "Important work."
She watched him for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay."
But as they stood, she reached out and grabbed his wrist.
Her grip was firm.
"You're lying," she said.
James froze.
"About what?" he asked.
"About everything," Ada replied softly.
Her hand dropped away as quickly as it had touched him, but the imprint remained—cold, electric.
They walked together anyway.
The city felt sharper today. Sounds cut deeper. Colors felt too vivid, like the world was overcompensating. James noticed people watching him—strangers whose gazes lingered a second too long, then snapped away.
At a crosswalk, Ada stopped suddenly.
James turned. "What is it?"
She frowned at the street. "This is where I usually trip."
His heart lurched. "What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just… déjà vu."
The light changed.
They crossed.
Nothing happened.
James released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
At her building, Ada hesitated.
"Do you want to come up?" she asked.
James shook his head. "Not tonight."
Her expression flickered—disappointment, then something harder.
"You keep saying that," she said. "But you never tell me why."
"I will," he said. "Just not yet."
Ada studied his face, searching for something.
"You know," she said slowly, "sometimes it feels like you're already grieving."
James didn't answer.
She turned and walked inside.
James waited until the door closed behind her before leaning against the wall, heart racing.
She was ahead of him now.
Not fully—but enough to be dangerous.
That night, James didn't stay near her building.
He stayed near the river.
He needed space to think.
The notebook lay open on his lap, pages filled with cramped handwriting. Rules. Observations. Times. Variations.
He added a new line.
Rule 9: Ada's awareness increases when James lies.
He stared at it.
"So honesty accelerates her death," he murmured. "And lies wake her up."
No winning.
His phone buzzed.
Ada: Are you watching me right now?
James's blood ran cold.
He typed, deleted, typed again.
James: No. Why would I be?
Seconds passed.
Then:
Ada: Just checking.
James slipped the phone into his pocket and stood up.
The river reflected the city lights in broken fragments. He stared at his own reflection, distorted and unfamiliar.
"She's adapting," he whispered. "Faster than the loop."
At 11:30 p.m., he returned home.
He locked the door.
Sat on the bed.
And waited.
11:47 p.m. came.
Nothing happened.
No explosion.
No scream.
No call.
James checked the time again.
11:49 p.m.
His chest tightened. "Did the time change?"
His phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
He answered without thinking.
"James," Ada's voice said calmly. "I need you to listen."
"Ada? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she replied. "For now."
"For now?"
"I remembered something," she said. "Not a whole memory. Just a feeling. Like falling."
James stood up. "Where are you?"
"At home," she said. "But I don't think that matters anymore."
His heart hammered. "Ada, tell me what you remember."
She hesitated.
"Every time I get close to the truth," she said softly, "you pull away."
"That's not—"
"You're afraid of me," she continued. "Not of losing me. Of what I might become."
James closed his eyes.
"Ada," he said quietly, "please don't try to find answers tonight."
There was a pause.
Then she laughed—soft, sad, knowing.
"It's already too late," she said.
The call ended.
James stared at the phone.
The clock ticked forward.
11:53 p.m.
The world did not reset.
For the first time, the day refused to end.
James whispered, "What did you do?"
Outside, sirens began to wail.
Slowly.
All at once.
And somewhere in the city, Ada was awake—
and watching back.