Chapter 3

The changes didn’t arrive all at once, which would have been merciful.

They came in sideways, like a draft through a window I hadn’t noticed was open. Small enough to dismiss. Persistent enough to be impossible to ignore once I started paying attention.

It began with sound.

Footsteps registered before faces did. Not loudly, not dramatically. Just a subtle tightening between my shoulders when someone walked too close behind me. The scuff of shoes on concrete threaded its way into my awareness, whether I wanted it or not. Fabric brushing fabric made my jaw clench. A chair scraping across tile felt sharp, personal.

I told myself it was stress.

Stress explained a lot of things. Stress explained why I hadn’t slept well. Stress explained the way my thoughts kept looping instead of settling. Stress did not mean anything had fundamentally changed.

Except then came the smell.

Coffee wasn’t just coffee anymore. It had layers. Bitter, yes, but also something bright underneath. Citrus cleaner on the bus hit too hard, making my eyes water. People carried signatures with them. Laundry soap. Heat. Something distinctly human threaded through it all, faint but undeniable.

I did not like that I noticed.

I reacted before thinking, and that bothered me more than the reactions themselves. Leaning away from some people without a reason I could articulate. Pausing mid-step when someone passed too close. Turning my head slightly toward others and then correcting myself, irritated by the instinct.

It wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t desire.

It was assessment.

Like my body had decided to run background checks without consulting me.

At home, my apartment felt wrong.

Not unsafe. Just exposed. The ceilings are too high. The windows are too open. The quiet pressed in instead of sitting politely in the corners where it belonged. I checked the locks before I realized I was doing it, my hand already on the deadbolt.

I stood there for a moment afterward, annoyed.

I had lived alone for years without incident. I trusted my routines. I trusted my judgment. My body didn’t get to suddenly rewrite the narrative and call it instinct.

I forced myself to step away from the door and finish unpacking my bag like nothing was wrong.

That night, sleep came in fragments. Not nightmares. Just impressions. Crowds. Proximity. The sensation of standing slightly apart from everything, alert in a way that didn’t turn off.

I woke with my jaw sore from clenching.

My sheets smelled different.

Not bad. Not foreign. Just stronger. Like my presence had started lingering when it hadn’t before. I stared at the fabric for a long moment, then stripped the bed and shoved everything into the washer with more force than necessary.

Clean cotton could fix this. Or at least give me something productive to do.

In the shower, I stood under the water until my skin flushed pink and my thoughts slowed. I breathed deliberately, counting the seconds. In. Out. Again.

Heart rate normal. No dizziness. No nausea.

This wasn’t panic.

It was vigilance.

That unsettled me more than fear would have. Fear was loud. Fear announced itself. Vigilance was quiet and persistent, as if it had already decided to stay.

I dressed with more care than usual. Jeans instead of leggings. Boots instead of sneakers. A jacket that felt heavier on my shoulders, grounding. I caught my reflection in the mirror and paused.

I looked the same.

That was the most disorienting part.

Nothing about me advertised change. No visible markers. No warning signs. If I hadn’t been told, I wouldn’t have known. Which meant whatever was happening wasn’t meant to be obvious. It was meant to work under the surface, unnoticed until it mattered.

The walk outside sharpened everything.

The city felt louder. Brighter. People moved around me with a weight I hadn’t registered before. Not threatening. Just present. Too present.

I caught myself cataloguing without meaning to. Distance. Direction. How close was too close? Where I’d step if someone blocked my path.

I stopped mid-stride and frowned at the pavement.

This was ridiculous.

I wasn’t prey. I wasn’t fragile. I wasn’t suddenly incapable of existing in public spaces. I refused to let a biological label rewrite my posture.

Still, my body remained unconvinced.

By afternoon, the hum under my skin had settled into something steady. Not painful. Just… on. Like a system that had been idle and was now fully operational.

I hated that metaphor.

At home again, I dug the pamphlet out of the trash without thinking. I didn’t open it right away. Just held it, weighing it in my hands as it might bite.

Eventually, I read the first page. Then the second.

I stopped before the sections about bonding and guardianship. I wasn’t ready for those yet. I wasn’t ready to give them space in my head.

Instead, I focused on the language.

Protection. Oversight. Support.

Words people used when they wanted compliance without argument.

I set the pamphlet aside and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. My apartment was quiet again, but it no longer felt neutral. It felt like something temporary.

That realization landed heavier than I expected.

I wasn’t spiraling. I wasn’t afraid.

I was adapting.

That scared me more than anything else.

My body was changing. Not dramatically. Not loudly. But deliberately. And I had the distinct, unsettling sense that it was preparing me for something I hadn’t agreed to yet.

I didn’t know what that meant.

But I knew this much.

Ignoring it would be a mistake.