Xlythe
Stories
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Xlythe
Stories
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Github
The sun streamed through the large classroom windows, casting a soft glow on the wooden desks. It was a free period, and while most students took the opportunity to chat, gossip, or hastily finish assignments, a small corner of the room was abuzz with a different kind of discussion.
David, Jacob, and Alice sat huddled together, their expressions serious. Each of them looked tired, as if they hadn't slept properly in days. The sounds of laughter and casual banter from the rest of the classroom felt distant and detached.
"I still can't believe that scene in the play," Jacob began, pushing up his glasses. "I've been part of the drama club for three years, and I swear I've never seen it before."
David sighed, rubbing his temples. "It's not just that, Jacob. Remember the basketball court? The history lesson? It's like... things are shifting when we aren't looking."
Alice, who had been silently fidgeting with her pencil, finally spoke up. "I thought I was losing my mind," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "Every time I noticed something different, I'd tell myself it was just my imagination. But after meeting you two, I'm not so sure."
David looked at her sympathetically. "We feel the same way, Alice. It's hard to trust your own memories when everything around you is saying you're wrong."
Jacob leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "But that's the thing, isn't it? Why are we the only ones noticing? Why isn't anyone else talking about this?"
Alice looked thoughtful. "Maybe they are... in their own way. People might just brush it off as a lapse in memory or a mistake. They'd move on, not giving it another thought."
David nodded. "It's human nature to seek consistency, to believe in a stable reality. If something doesn't fit, we rationalize it."
The room grew silent as the weight of their shared experience settled in. Each of them was grappling with the same question: Were they truly witnessing reality shift around them, or were they just succumbing to some shared delusion?
Jacob's voice, usually filled with sarcasm, was sober. "We should document everything. Every discrepancy, every change. There might be a pattern."
David's eyes held a haunted look. "I've been doing the same. But it's... overwhelming. Everything feels like it's slipping away. We need to pool our observations, try to anchor ourselves to something."
Alice's voice was soft, filled with an anxiety she rarely displayed. "I sometimes lie awake at night, questioning if everything I remember is just... fabricated. If we don't find answers, how do we know what's real anymore?"
The weight of the conversation hung in the air, the gravity of their situation pressing down on them.
Jacob swallowed hard, clearing his throat. "We're not alone in this, right? There have to be others who've noticed."
David's face was pale, his voice barely above a whisper. "But what if it's just us? What if we're the anomaly?"
Alice gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white. "We need to find out. And if it's only us... we have to rely on each other. No one else will understand."
As the bell tolled, signaling the end of their fleeting respite, the world around them continued its usual rhythm, oblivious to their crisis. The trio, however, moved with a unity, bound by their shared uncertainty and the chilling possibility that their reality was unraveling.
The school cafeteria, usually a source of distraction and respite, felt more like a pressure cooker today. David, Jacob, and Alice found a secluded spot, their trays of food in front of them acting more like props than nourishment.
David looked lost in thought, occasionally stirring his salad. "You know, every time I think I've figured something out, something else changes. It's like trying to solve a puzzle that keeps shifting."
Jacob snorted, taking a reluctant bite of his sandwich. "I've half a mind to think we're all going crazy. Maybe this is some collective delusion."
Alice, her appetite clearly absent, pushed her food around. "I've been doing some reading. Did you know there's a phenomenon where large groups of people remember something one way, even if it never happened? They call it the Mandela Effect."
David raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying we're misremembering things?"
She shrugged, a hint of frustration in her eyes. "I don't know. But it's a theory. Maybe our brains are playing tricks on us."
The three of them fell into a contemplative silence, the weight of the unknown pressing down on them. The cafeteria's background noise seemed distant, as if they were in a bubble, separated from the rest of the world.
Jacob broke the silence with a humorless chuckle. "So our options are: we're either going mad, there's a grand conspiracy, or reality itself is broken. Great choices."
David leaned back, rubbing his temples. "We need more data. More observations. If we're the only ones noticing these things, then maybe it is all in our heads."
Alice looked between the two, her resolve hardening. "Either way, we need to stick together. If we are going crazy, at least we won't be alone."
The conversation continued, with the trio debating, questioning, and sometimes just venting their frustrations. But underlying it all was a palpable tension. The fear of the unknown, the doubt about their own perceptions, and the weight of isolation bore down on them.
Jacob, having given the matter some thought since their lunchtime conversation, began, "We need something concrete. Something we can all observe and note down. A shared experience, but in a controlled environment."
David looked at him, intrigued. "Go on."
Pulling out a history textbook from his bag, Jacob flipped to a random page. "We use this as our subject. Every night, each of us reads this specific page. We memorize the details, take notes if we need to. And every morning, we compare notes. If reality is... shifting as we think it is, we should notice discrepancies."
Alice, ever the voice of reason, raised an eyebrow. "And if we don't find any discrepancies?"
Jacob replied, "Then maybe we're just three students with overactive imaginations. But if we do..."
David finished his sentence, "... then we have proof. Proof that we're not just seeing things."
Alice sighed, running her fingers through her hair. "It's a start. Which page are we looking at?"
Jacob pointed to a page detailing the events of a lesser-known battle. "This one. It's obscure enough that none of us would have known about it before, and it's filled with names, dates, and details—perfect for our experiment."
David nodded, appreciating Jacob's methodical approach. "Alright, we start tonight. Everyone reads, everyone memorizes. We meet here first thing in the morning to discuss."
Alice added, "And no discussing it outside of this group. We don't need anyone thinking we've lost our minds."
Over the next several days, the library became the trio's sanctuary. They would meet there after classes, each pulling out their notes, their eyes scanning the page for any discrepancies. The smell of old books and the soft hum of the air conditioning provided a comforting backdrop to their intense scrutiny.
David, ever the meticulous one, had created a system. They would break the page down into sections, each person responsible for a particular part. Every morning, they would quiz each other, ensuring that their memories were sharp.
Alice, while initially skeptical, threw herself into the task with surprising fervor. She would often read her section out loud, her voice echoing softly in the hushed library.
Jacob, meanwhile, kept a digital record, typing notes and possible discrepancies into his laptop. His fingers flew over the keys, the soft tapping sound a testament to his determination.
Days turned into nights and nights into days. But as the week wore on, tension began to mount. Each morning meeting was met with the same outcome: no changes. The page remained consistent, every word, every comma in its rightful place.
One evening, as the trio sat in their usual spot, the weight of the situation began to press on them. The library's vast rows of books seemed oppressive, the silence stifling.
Jacob rubbed his temples, frustration evident in his eyes. "It's been days. Why isn't anything changing?"
Alice, her calm demeanor cracking, replied tersely, "Maybe because there's nothing to change. Maybe we're just—"
David cut her off, his voice gentle but firm. "We're not imagining this, Alice. We've all seen the discrepancies. We just need to be patient."
The sun had long set, and the world outside was cloaked in the quiet stillness of night. Inside their respective homes, however, the trio grappled with their own tempests of doubt and confusion.
The soft glow of a table lamp illuminated David's room, casting warm, golden hues over the walls adorned with posters of philosophical quotes and abstract art. Sitting on his bed, David took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before approaching his parents.
"Mum, Dad," he began, hesitancy evident in his voice, "Have you ever... noticed things changing? Things that shouldn't change?"
His parents exchanged a glance, a mix of concern and confusion. His mother, her voice gentle, replied, "What do you mean, David?"
"Like... history. Or even the layout of places. Things you're sure were one way, but then they're suddenly different."
His father chuckled, mistaking David's earnestness for youthful imagination. "Oh, David. You've always had such a vivid imagination. Maybe you're just misremembering."
David's heart sank. He had hoped for understanding, maybe even shared experiences. But the dismissal stung. "Never mind," he whispered, retreating into his room and the safety of his thoughts.
Alice sat cross-legged on her living room floor, surrounded by scattered sheets of paper, each filled with her neat handwriting. The act of journaling had always been therapeutic for her, a way to organize her thoughts and emotions.
But tonight, the words on the page seemed to mock her. Sentences oscillated between staunch belief in what they had observed and biting skepticism. "Am I losing my grip on reality?" she wrote, her hand trembling slightly. "Or is reality losing its grip on me?"
Tears pricked her eyes as she felt the weight of isolation. The world around her felt unstable, shifting, and she felt adrift in a sea of doubt.
Jacob's room was a contrast of order and chaos. Stacks of books, both on psychology and the human mind, were piled high on his desk. Multiple browser tabs were open on his computer, each delving into a different psychological condition.
"Shared hallucination? Mass psychosis?" he muttered, scanning articles and medical journals. The more he read, the more a chilling thought took root: What if they were all just experiencing some shared delusion?
He paused, coming across an article on 'Folie à Deux' – a syndrome where symptoms of a delusional belief are transmitted from one individual to another. Could that be it? Were they just reinforcing each other's delusions?
With a heavy sigh, Jacob leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. The weight of doubt pressed down on him, the lines between reality and illusion blurring.
The library, usually a haven of knowledge and calm, had become a place of intense scrutiny for the trio over the past days. The familiar scent of aged books and the hushed whispers of students faded into the background as David, Alice, and Jacob sat in their usual spot, the history textbook laid out before them.
Day after day, they had poured over the chosen page, each word, punctuation, and footnote committed to memory. Yet, everything remained consistent. The doubt that had individually plagued them began to manifest collectively.
"Maybe we were wrong," Jacob muttered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Maybe there's nothing unusual happening."
Alice, her fingers tracing the lines of text she had read countless times, looked up with weariness in her eyes. "It's been days, and nothing's changed. Maybe it's just us."
David, however, wasn't ready to concede. "We've come this far," he whispered, "We owe it to ourselves to see it through."
As the hours passed, the weight of their shared frustration grew. It was Alice who broke the silence, her finger pointing to a sentence in the middle of the page. "This... this wasn't here before," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jacob leaned in, eyes scanning the line Alice was pointing at. It was a minor detail, an additional fact about a historical event, but it was undeniably different. "She's right," he affirmed, excitement evident in his voice.
David's eyes widened as he processed the change. "This is it. Our proof."