It started with small things.
So small that if he hadn't already been paying attention, he would have missed them completely.
A pause in conversation where there hadn't been one before.
A look that lingered half a second longer than usual.
Someone waiting.
The first time it happened, he didn't even register it as unusual.
A coworker stopped by his desk mid-morning with a question about a report. Nothing complicated. Something he'd answered a dozen times before.
He listened.
Not just waited for the end of the sentence — actually listened.
When he responded, the coworker blinked, just slightly.
"Oh," she said. "Right. That makes sense."
Then she stayed.
Not to ask another question. Just… stayed for a moment longer than necessary.
He noticed the gap.
He noticed the shift.
He didn't know what it meant.
At lunch, someone he barely spoke to sat across from him without asking.
Not intrusively. Casually. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They talked about nothing in particular. Weather. The weird new coffee machine. A meeting that should've been an email.
Normal.
Except the conversation didn't stall the way it usually did.
There were no long empty spaces. No one checking their phone every thirty seconds.
When it ended, it ended cleanly.
"That was nice," she said, surprised at herself.
He felt it too.
But he didn't know why.
The record stayed quiet.
That made him uneasy.
He had grown used to it naming things.
Now something was happening that it didn't bother to explain.
In the afternoon, he passed his manager in the hallway.
"Hey," she said, stopping him. "Quick question."
He stopped.
Actually stopped.
Not the half-turn people do when they're still walking.
He faced her.
She asked about a timeline. He answered honestly. Not optimistically. Not defensively.
She nodded.
"Thanks," she said. "That's helpful."
Not polite helpful.
Actual helpful.
He walked away feeling… strange.
Not proud.
Not validated.
Just seen.
On the way home, he noticed the same pattern again.
The barista looked up when he spoke, instead of continuing to work while half-listening.
A stranger asked him for directions — not because he looked official, but because he looked available.
Present.
He realized something uncomfortable.
He hadn't changed what he said.
He had changed how he occupied space.
He wasn't rushing.
He wasn't shrinking.
He wasn't drifting.
He was there.
That was enough to make him noticeable.
At home, he stood by the window and watched the city settle into evening. Lights flicked on. People moved between apartments like shadows.
He wondered how often he himself had been invisible without meaning to be.
The record still didn't speak.
That night, lying in bed, he waited for it.
Some kind of explanation. Some kind of confirmation.
Nothing came.
Just before sleep, a single new line appeared.
External feedback detected.
He stared at it.
"That's it?" he whispered.
No details. No breakdown.
Just acknowledgment that something outside of him had shifted.
And that meant the system wasn't just tracking his choices.
It was tracking their impact.
That realization settled deeper than he liked.
Because impact wasn't something you could undo.