The words were bleeding.
Not literally—but the lines in Rion's notebook had started to warp. Letters near the edges slanted inward, like the margins were shrinking. Like the story wanted more room than the page would give.
He stared at them in class. Math problems crammed to the right side, words curling up into the spiral of the paper. Even printed worksheets looked off—fonts drifting toward the corners, like gravity had shifted.
Then he saw it in his textbook.
A sentence stretched past the edge of the page.
> You don't belong in the center anymore.
He closed the book fast.
Later, he brought a ruler. Measured the margin on every page.
They were changing. Barely. But enough.
That night, he dreamed of paper swallowing itself.
In the dream, he was speaking, but the lines ate his words before they reached the end of the sentence.
When he woke up, the first thing he did was check his mirror.
His reflection was still there.
But the corners were dark.