There’s a faint clicking somewhere in the background of my days. Not loud enough to disturb anything, but steady, like a small mechanism turning just out of sight. Since it began, the world feels a bit misaligned—familiar, yet shifted by a few degrees.

I move through this place carrying a version of myself I no longer fully recognize. She lingers behind me like an unfinished thought, holding onto truths that once felt solid. Sometimes I catch her reflection where mine should be. Sometimes she dissolves before I can look closely.

Between us there is a narrow gap. Not wide enough to name, but just enough to feel. A kind of corridor where time drifts sideways, where memories surface with no clear origin, and where new realities begin forming before I understand what they mean.

I can’t tell whether I’m crossing into something else or circling the same point from different angles. Both seem possible. Both seem slightly true.

From this quiet displacement, shapes begin to appear. They come with the stillness of objects left in an empty room, holding fragments of thought, echoes of dreams, and the faint, persistent hum of a world rearranging itself.

What emerges is neither past nor future—just the space in between, turning with its own steady rhythm, like that distant clicking no one else seems to hear.