I learned something very early in life.
If I stayed too long in one place, the world started to feel… wrong.
Not loud-wrong. Not broken-wrong.
Just quiet enough to notice that I wasn't meant to be there.
The first time it happened, I was thirteen. I blinked—and the street I stood on bent like paper. Colors folded into themselves. The air cracked.
And then I was somewhere else.
That was how I learned I could travel between worlds.
I didn't tell anyone. Not my parents. Not my friends. Some truths are too heavy to survive being spoken.
By sixteen, I had rules.
Never stay too long. Never fall in love. Never believe a world will keep you.
I broke the third rule first.