Chapter 10: The Rules of Ordinary Days (1)
"-you're just stingy. You probably have a secret vault filled with perfectly labeled gold bars."
Demi's voice faded in and out like a radio station losing signal.
El blinked.
No-he wasn't blinking.
He was waking up.
But that didn't make sense because he hadn't been asleep.
He'd been walking.
Talking.
Arguing about coffee and gold bars and the structural integrity of his budget.
Hadn't he?
"El? Hello? Earth to my emotionally constipated best friend?"
El's feet were still moving.
The pavement was still under him.
The late afternoon sun was still warm on his face.
Everything was normal.
Except he'd just... arrived.
In the middle of a sentence.
In the middle of a conversation.
Like someone had pressed play after pausing his existence.
"If I had gold bars," El heard himself say,
"do you think I'd still be wearing a tie that I bought from a vending machine?"
The words came out automatically.
Like a script.
Like they'd already been written for him.
Demi laughed.
"Fair point."
Fair point.
The same words.
The exact same inflection.
El stopped walking.
Demi continued for two more steps before noticing.
He turned back, eyebrows raised.
"Uh. You okay? Did the vending machine tie finally achieve consciousness and strangle you?"
El didn't respond.
His mind was racing.
He remembered this.
All of it.
The walk.
The argument.
The street lamp Demi almost walked into-
Demi swerved at the last second, narrowly avoiding collision with a lamp post he hadn't seen because he was too busy checking his reflection in a shop window.
The exact same lamp post.
The exact same swerve.
El's chest tightened.
"Oh, humanity!"
Demi clutched his stomach, staggering dramatically.
"El, look! My blood sugar is dropping! If I don't get a Chai-flavored chemical solution in the next three minutes,
I might actually have to start doing my own spreadsheets tomorrow!"
Three businessmen in tailored suits turned to stare.
Just like before.
El pressed a hand to his forehead.
His skin was cold.
Clammy.
Wrong.
"Demi."
Demi froze mid-stagger.
"Yeah?"
"What day is it?"
Demi tilted his head, confused.
"Uh... Monday? Did you hit your head? Did the vending machine tie give you a concussion?"
Monday.
Monday again.
But El hadn't woken up in his apartment.
He hadn't woken up at his desk.
He'd woken up here.
In the middle of the walk.
In the middle of a loop that was supposed to start at the beginning.
The rules are changing.
"Dude."
Demi was staring at him now, his theatrical panic replaced by genuine concern.
"You look like you just saw a ghost. Your face is literally the color of that cheap creamer they have at Whimsy."
El opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
Because how do you explain to your best friend that reality is broken?
That you've lived this moment before-dozens of times, maybe hundreds?
That the woman you love isn't real, except maybe she is, and you're trapped in something you don't understand?
"You're scaring me,"
Demi said quietly.
"And I'm not easily scared. I once watched a horror movie and only screamed three times."
El grabbed Demi's arm.
"I need to sit down."
---
WHIMSY COFFEE SHOP
They sat at their usual table-the one with the wobbly leg and the duct-taped chair and the stain shaped like South America.
El's House Drip sat untouched in front of him.
Demi's Chai Latte (oat milk denied, as always) steamed between his hands.
Neither of them was drinking.
"Okay."
Demi leaned forward, his voice low.
"Talk to me. What's going on? And don't say 'nothing' because I've known you for six years and you only make that face when something is very, very wrong."
El stared at his coffee.
How many times has he sat here?
How many times had he watched that door burst open, watched those girls walk in, watched Aletheia's eyes find him across the room?
How many times has he left this coffee shop and forgotten everything, only to wake up and do it all again?
"I think..."
He stopped.
Started over.
"I think something's wrong with me, Demi."
Demi's eyebrows shot up.
"Wrong how? Like 'needs to see a doctor' wrong or like 'existential crisis' wrong or like 'I've joined a cult and we worship spreadsheets' wrong?"
"I'm being serious."
"So am I. Spreadsheet cults are no joke."
Despite everything, El felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Just slightly.
Just enough for Demi to notice.
"Ah! There it is. The almost-smile. My work here is done."
Demi leaned back, looking satisfied.
El shook his head.
"You're impossible."
"And yet you keep me around. That's called love, El. Pure, complicated, why-do-I-put-up-with-this love."
Demi took a sip of his chai, then set it down.
"Now seriously. What's going on? You've been weird all day. Weirder than usual."
El looked at his best friend-this loud, chaotic, impossible person who had no idea that time was broken.
How much could he say?
How much would Demi even believe?
"I've been having these dreams,"
El started slowly.
"Really vivid ones. About a girl."
Demi's eyes lit up.
"Ooooh, romantic dreams? Spicy dreams? Tell me everything. I need details. I thrive on details."
"She's not... she's not like anyone I've ever met. We're in this garden.
This impossible garden has flowers in colors that don't exist. And she's just... there. Waiting for me."
Demi leaned forward, genuinely interested now.
"And?"
"And I think I'm in love with her."
The words hung in the air between them.
El hadn't said them out loud before.
Not to anyone.
Not even to himself, really.
But they were true.
Devastatingly, impossibly true.
Demi's expression softened.
"Okay. That's... that's actually really sweet, El. But why do you look like you're about to throw up?"
"Because I don't think she's just a dream."
El met his eyes.
"I think she's real. Somewhere. And I think I'm stuck."
Demi blinked.
"Stuck how?"
El took a breath.
And then he told him.
Not everything-not yet.
Just enough.
The recurring dreams.
The way they felt more real than waking life.
The growing fear that something was very, very wrong.
Demi listened without interrupting.
No jokes.
No theatrical gestures.
Just... listening.
When El finished, Demi was quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he said finally.
"That's a lot."
"I know."
"And by 'a lot,' I mean 'potentially concerning enough that I'm wondering if you've been replaced by a pod person.'"
"I know."
Demi studied him.
Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled napkin and a pen that looked like it had been through a war.
"Okay. Let's do this scientifically. Tell me everything you remember about these dreams.
Every detail. Even the ones that seem stupid."
El stared at him.
"You believe me?"
Demi shrugged.
"I believe that you believe it. And you're not crazy, El. You're boring and you have the emotional range of a teaspoon, but you're not crazy."
He clicked the pen.
"Now talk."
---
For the next twenty minutes, El talked.
Demi took notes on the napkin-actual notes, in surprisingly neat handwriting.
The garden.
The fountain.
The cliff by the ocean.
The way Kaye's voice sounded like velvet.
The way her eyes held galaxies.
The way she'd said his name like she'd known it forever.
"She called you by your name?"
Demi interrupted.
"Yes."
"Without you telling her?"
El paused.
"I... I never thought about that. I just assumed... I don't know what I assumed."
Demi scribbled something on the napkin.
"Okay. Continue."
El told him about the loops.
About waking up at his desk, in his apartment, always at the beginning.
About the conversations that repeated word for word, the way Demi never remembered but El always did.
Demi's pen stopped moving.
"Wait. Loops? Like... time loops? Like Groundhog Day but with more existential dread and less Bill Murray?"
"Yes."
"And you're telling me I've lived through these loops too? Multiple times?"
"Yes."
Demi stared at him.
Then, slowly, he set down the pen.
"El."
His voice was carefully calm.
"If what you're saying is true-if we've actually had this conversation before-then tell me something only I would know. Something from a previous loop."
El thought.
Then he said:
"The banana. From 2022. The one you found in your desk that had achieved sentience. You told me it looked at you."
Demi's face went pale.
"I've never told anyone about that banana. It was too traumatic."
"In the last loop, you told me. Right after Mira threatened you with HR."
Demi was quiet for a long, long moment.
Then he grabbed his chai and took a very long sip.
"Okay."
His voice was slightly higher than usual.
"Okay. So either you're psychic, or we're actually trapped in a time loop, or I'm having a shared hallucination, which honestly might be worse because then I'd have to admit I'm crazy too."
"Which do you believe?"
Demi set down his cup.
"I believe you're not crazy. And I believe something weird is happening."
He picked up the pen again.
"So let's figure it out. What else do you remember? Any patterns? Anything that changes between loops?"
El's mind raced.
"The coffee shop," he said slowly.
"A group of girls always comes in. At the same time. They sit at the table next to us. And one of them-her name is Aletheia-she gives me a card."
Demi frowned.
"Every loop?"
"Every loop."
"And what does the card say?"
El hesitated.
"On the front, it has her name and some logo. But on the back..."
He paused.
"On the back, it says 'Stop looking for the exit.' And there's a symbol. A bird with its wings pinned back."
Demi's pen stopped again.
"That's..."
He trailed off.
"That's creepy, El. That's really creepy."
"I know."
"And there's more. Underneath the symbol, there's also writing. 'Sweet dreams, El.'"
Demi's eyebrows shot up.
"Sweet dreams? Like... romantic sweet dreams or creepy 'I'm watching you sleep' sweet dreams?"
"I don't know. Both, maybe."
Demi rubbed his temples.
"Okay. So you get a card from a mysterious beautiful woman that says
'stop looking for the exit' and 'sweet dreams.' And you're telling me this happens every time? And I just... forget?"
"You always forget. Everyone forgets. Except me."
Demi leaned back, processing.
"So you're the only one who remembers. That means either you're special, or something wants you to remember."
The words hung in the air.
Something wants you to remember.
El thought of Kaye.
Her fear.
Her whispered warnings.
The way she'd looked around the garden like someone might be listening.
"They're watching," she'd said.
"They've always been watching."
"Demi." El's voice was quiet.
"What if the dreams aren't the escape? What if they're the real thing? And this-"
He gestured at the coffee shop, the city, everything.
"What if this is the dream?"
Demi stared at him.
Then he did something unexpected.
He laughed.
Not his usual theatrical laugh-something softer.
Warmer.
"El," he said,
"if this is a dream, you have a very boring subconscious. I mean, look at this place."
He gestured at the peeling duct tape, the flickering lights, the stain shaped like South America.
"Your brain created this and thought, 'Yes, this is where my best friend and I belong'?"
Despite everything, El felt his shoulders relax. Just slightly.
"You're not helping."
"I'm helping in my own way." Demi leaned forward.
"Look. I don't understand what's happening. Time loops, dream girls, mysterious cards-it's way above my pay grade.
But here's what I do know: you're my best friend. You're not crazy.
And whatever's going on, you don't have to figure it out alone."
El looked at him-this loud, chaotic, impossible person who'd just had his entire understanding of reality challenged and decided to stay anyway.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Demi waved it off.
"Yeah, yeah, you can thank me by buying me an actual coffee someday. One with real milk."
He glanced at the door.
"So. These girls. They come in soon?"
El nodded.
"Any minute now."
"Good."
Demi straightened in his chair, a glint in his eyes.
"Let's watch. Let's see if anything's different this time."