Chapter 4: The First Lie
James woke up calm.
That alone terrified him.
No racing heart.
No panic.
No desperate hope.
Just the steady awareness of 7:18 a.m. and the quiet certainty that the day belonged to him now.
He sat on the edge of the bed and opened the notebook again.
RULES OF THE LOOP
His eyes lingered on the last line.
Ada is starting to remember.
"That changes everything," he murmured.
His phone buzzed.
Ada: You're late. Don't forget our coffee.
James stared at the message for a long time.
Then he typed.
James: I won't make it today. Something came up.
He hit send before doubt could creep in.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then:
Ada: Oh. Okay. That's… unexpected.
Unexpected.
James exhaled slowly.
Today, he would not meet her in the morning.
Today, he would watch.
He followed her instead.
From a distance.
James stayed across the street as Ada exited her apartment building, umbrella in hand, humming softly to herself. She looked normal. Alive. Unaware that she had already died three times.
She checked her phone.
Paused.
Looked around.
James ducked behind a parked car, heart pounding.
"She feels it," he whispered. "She knows something's off."
Ada frowned, then shook her head and continued walking.
James didn't move until she disappeared around the corner.
The first rule of survival formed itself in his mind:
Don't let Ada know everything.
Not yet.
The rest of the day became an exercise in restraint.
James avoided places he knew she would be. He turned down streets he remembered walking with her. Every instinct screamed at him to stay close, to protect her—
—but protection hadn't worked.
At noon, he sat alone on a park bench, watching pigeons scatter as a child ran through them.
He opened the notebook again and added another line.
Rule 6: Emotional attachment destabilizes the loop.
His phone buzzed.
Ada: Are you mad at me?
His fingers tightened around the phone.
James: No. Just busy.
A lie.
The first intentional one.
It tasted bitter.
Ada replied a minute later.
Ada: Okay… just checking.
James closed his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though she couldn't hear him.
They met in the evening.
Ada insisted.
"You can't just disappear all day and pretend that's normal," she said when she saw him. Her arms were crossed, but her eyes were worried rather than angry.
James forced a tired smile. "I told you. Busy day."
"You've never been 'busy' like this before."
He shrugged. "People change."
She studied him closely. "Not overnight."
Silence stretched between them.
James broke it. "Do you remember yesterday?"
Ada blinked. "Yesterday?"
"Yes," he said carefully. "Anything unusual?"
She hesitated.
"For a second," she said slowly, "I thought you were going to ask me something else."
James's breath caught. "Like what?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. It's gone now."
The air felt heavier.
James smiled softly. "See? Just a normal day."
Ada didn't smile back.
At 11:20 p.m., James made his choice.
He stood in Ada's living room, heart pounding, and said the words he had sworn never to say.
"I have to leave."
Ada stared at him. "Now?"
"Yes."
Her voice dropped. "After everything today?"
"I'll be back," he said. "I promise."
It wasn't true.
Not completely.
He was changing the variables.
James stepped outside and walked away, every step feeling like betrayal.
Behind him, Ada watched from the doorway, confusion turning slowly into something darker.
James didn't go home.
He hid.
From a rooftop across the street, he watched Ada's building with a pair of borrowed binoculars, rain soaking his jacket, teeth clenched against the cold.
11:35 p.m.
Lights on.
No movement.
11:40 p.m.
A shadow passed her window.
James's pulse spiked.
11:44 p.m.
Someone entered the building.
Not her.
James focused, breath shallow.
11:46 p.m.
Ada's phone lit up inside her apartment.
James couldn't hear it—but he knew.
He always knew.
11:47 p.m.
The explosion never came.
No glass.
No scream.
No sirens.
James's breath caught.
"Did it… work?" he whispered.
Then he saw her.
Ada stepped out onto the balcony, phone pressed to her ear.
She was alive.
James's knees nearly buckled with relief.
For three heartbeats, the world felt merciful.
Then—
Ada stiffened.
Her expression changed.
Not fear.
Recognition.
She whispered something into the phone.
Then she looked straight at the rooftop.
Straight at James.
Even from this distance, he could see her eyes widen.
"Impossible," James breathed.
She couldn't see him.
Could she?
Ada raised her hand slowly…
…and pointed.
The world shattered.
James woke up on the floor of his apartment.
Rain.
7:18 a.m.
The clock glowed softly.
He didn't move.
His phone buzzed.
Ada: You're late. Don't forget our coffee.
James stared at the ceiling.
His heart was calm again.
Too calm.
He sat up and opened the notebook.
Rule 7: Avoiding Ada delays her death—but causes awareness.
His hand hovered.
Then he added:
Rule 8: Ada can sense the observer.
James closed the notebook.
A chill crept down his spine.
"So you're not just trapped," he murmured.
"You're watching back."
He picked up his phone and typed.
James: Good morning. I'll see you soon.
This time, the lie felt deliberate.
Necessary.
Dangerous.
James smiled faintly.
"Alright, Ada," he whispered.
"Let's see how much you really remember."