The inside of the coffee shop is normally warm and inviting, but today something feels... off. The woman behind you hesitates at the door you've held open.

"Thanks," she mutters, clutching her purse a little tighter. "Creep."

Her words sting. The barista takes your drink order curtly, no small talk, like she wants you gone as soon as possible. The older woman behind you glares at the back of your head.

At the gym the next day, the attendant at the front desk looks up at your approach, then stiffens.

"I... I think we're full today," she says quickly, even though the room behind her is half-empty. She shifts a towel in front of her chest like it's a shield. "Maybe come back... later."

Behind her, a staff member is already eyeing you, lips tight, arms crossed.

At the bookstore, a wallet falls near the philosophy section. The woman it belongs to looks up just in time to see you standing nearby.

"Don't touch that!" she shrieks, loud enough to draw the attention of half the store.

You're still there when the manager arrives. He doesn't say anything, just watches until you leave — under the scrutiny of a dozen suspicious stares.

A shave. Change of clothes. Complete silence in public. The pattern continues.

On Thursday, the elevator ride is short. HR gets on with you. She glances once, then pulls out her phone. Starts recording.

"Just so there's proof," she says. "In case anything happens."

On Friday, you sit across from your therapist. She frowns as she flips through her notes.

"This is... odd," she says. "I've read about rare perception phenomena. Like a collective delusion. You're not doing anything, but they still react. Almost like they're seeing something that isn't real."

She taps the pen against her clipboard. "It might be safest if you stayed home for now.... And if you could actually stay away from me, that would be even better."

But staying home doesn't solve everything. You still need groceries.

At the store, a child drops her teddy bear near your feet. You pause. Her mother sees you from the next aisle and screams.

"Get away from her! Somebody call security!"

You're not surprised when the manager bans you. No explanation. Just cold, quiet hostility.

The next morning, a folded piece of paper waits under your door. No name. Just messy, urgent handwriting:

"They're not imagining it. Someone's doing this. Meet me behind the old movie theater. 10 p.m. Come alone."