The change didn't announce itself.
It leaked in.
A tone here. A look there. Expectations that hadn't existed before, now quietly attached to him like invisible weight.
It started the next morning.
He walked into the office and felt it immediately — the sense that a few eyes tracked him a second longer than necessary. Not suspicion. Not curiosity.
Assumption.
People had decided something about him.
He didn't know what it was yet.
A coworker approached him with a question that wasn't really a question.
"So… what do you think we should do about this?" she asked, gesturing vaguely at her screen.
Not "Can you help me?"Not "Do you know?"
What should we do.
He hesitated.
Not because he didn't have an answer.
Because he wasn't sure he was supposed to have one.
"I think you should check with the team lead," he said carefully.
She frowned.
"Oh," she said. "I just thought you'd have an idea."
The disappointment was subtle.
But it was there.
The record stayed quiet.
That made it worse.
By noon, it had happened three more times.
People treating him like a reference point.
Not a boss. Not an authority.
Just… someone who knew.
Someone who had clarity.
He didn't remember asking for that role.
At lunch, someone slid into the seat across from him without asking.
"Can I get your opinion on something?"
He nodded.
It was a long story. Personal. Messy. The kind of thing people didn't usually bring to coworkers.
He listened.
He didn't give advice.
He asked a question.
That seemed to satisfy them.
They left looking lighter.
He stayed behind feeling heavier.
The record didn't react.
He was beginning to hate that.
In the afternoon, his manager stopped him in the hallway.
"Quick thing," she said. "You seem to have a good sense for how things are actually going. Let me know if you notice anything off, okay?"
Not an order.
Not a compliment.
A responsibility.
He nodded.
She walked away.
The word settled in his chest.
Responsibility.
He hadn't signed up for that.
On the train ride home, the city felt louder than usual. Too many sounds layered on top of each other. Too many small demands pulling at his attention.
He felt tired in a way that sleep didn't fix.
At home, he stared at the sink longer than necessary, unsure of what he was waiting for.
Guidance.
Permission.
Something.
Nothing came.
The record didn't speak.
That night, he lay awake longer than usual.
The faces replayed in his mind. The half-expectant looks. The assumptions.
He hadn't changed.
But the space around him had.
Just before he drifted off, the text finally updated.
Social pressure increasing.
He swallowed.
"So now you tell me," he whispered.
The words didn't explain anything.
They didn't soften the weight.
They just named it.
And somehow, that made it feel heavier.