Everyone Is Acting Normally

The first time I noticed it, it was raining.

Not a dramatic storm. Not the kind that splits trees or floods streets. Just a soft, steady drizzle that made the pavement shine like polished stone. I was standing at the bus stop, watching people scroll through their phones, adjust their coats, blink away droplets.

Everyone was acting normally.

That’s what unsettled me.

The digital billboard across the street flickered for half a second. The image distorted — faces stretched too wide, eyes slightly misaligned — then snapped back to a toothpaste advertisement. No one reacted. A man beside me laughed at something on his screen. A woman tapped her umbrella against her shoe. The bus arrived exactly three minutes late, like always.

I got on.

Inside, the lights hummed faintly. A child dropped her juice box. It spilled in a slow, impossible way, the liquid hovering midair before falling in thick globs onto the floor.

Her mother didn’t gasp. She didn’t blink.

She simply said, “That’s alright,” in the same tone someone might use to comment on the weather.

The juice finished falling. Gravity resumed.

Everyone was acting normally.

I started paying attention after that.

At the office, Daniel from accounting walked straight into a glass wall. Not hard enough to injure himself — just enough that the sound echoed sharply across the room. He paused, turned slightly, and continued walking as if the wall had not existed. No embarrassment. No reaction.

No one laughed.

No one asked if he was okay.

My manager handed out quarterly reports that were completely blank. Twenty pages of white paper, clipped neatly together.

“Please review carefully,” she said.

Everyone nodded. Pens moved across empty sheets. Pages flipped with professional seriousness.

I stared at mine.

Blank.

I looked around. Not one furrowed brow. Not one confused whisper.

I raised my hand slowly. It felt theatrical, like I was in a classroom.

“Yes?” my manager smiled.

“The reports,” I said carefully. “They’re empty.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “Everything you need is there.”

A few coworkers glanced at me — not annoyed, not curious — just briefly acknowledging noise. Then they returned to their invisible work.

I looked back at the pages.

For a moment — just a flicker — faint words appeared. Columns of numbers. Graphs. Analysis.

Then they vanished.

I lowered my hand.

Everyone was acting normally.

At lunch, I tested something.

“The sky was green this morning,” I said casually, unwrapping my sandwich.

“It was,” Sarah replied, chewing thoughtfully.

No hesitation.

No confusion.

“It hummed,” I added.

“Yes,” Daniel nodded. “Very softly.”

They continued eating.

I stepped outside.

The sky was blue. Completely ordinary. Birds flew in neat, predictable lines. Cars stopped at red lights. A woman walked her dog. The leash was attached to nothing — just trailing forward as if pulled by an invisible animal.

She smiled at me politely.

Everyone was acting normally.

The real shift happened on Thursday.

I woke up to silence.

Not quiet — silence. The kind that feels padded, artificial. My alarm clock displayed 7:30 AM but emitted no sound. I showered; the water hit my skin without noise. My footsteps made no contact with the floor.

When I stepped onto the street, I realized the silence was everywhere.

Cars moved without engines. Conversations occurred without voices. A construction site operated in perfect, soundless choreography.

Mouths opened. Laughter formed shapes. No sound followed.

I covered my ears instinctively.

Nothing changed.

I stopped a man in a grey coat.

“Can you hear this?” I shouted.

He looked at me calmly. “Hear what?”

“The silence!”

He tilted his head slightly. “It’s a bit loud today,” he agreed.

Then he walked away.

I began to panic — not dramatically, not screaming — but internally, like something unraveling thread by thread.

I ran to the café on the corner. The barista greeted me soundlessly.

“Is something wrong?” I demanded.

She smiled.

Behind her, the espresso machine steamed without steam. Cups clinked without clinking.

“Everything’s fine,” she said — except I didn’t hear it. I read it. Her lips formed the words, and somehow they arrived directly in my mind.

Everything’s fine.

I backed away slowly.

Everyone was acting normally.

That evening, the sound returned. Gradually. A distant car horn. The hum of electricity. My own breathing, sharp and uneven.

I sat by my window, watching people pass beneath the streetlights.

An old man tripped. He fell hard onto the pavement.

No one rushed to help.

He stood up immediately, dusted off his coat, and continued walking.

A young couple argued animatedly — their mouths moving fast — but their faces were blank, their eyes distant, like actors rehearsing lines they didn’t understand.

A dog barked at nothing. Or perhaps at something none of us could see.

I pressed my forehead to the glass.

“What is happening?” I whispered.

The reflection stared back at me.

Calm.

Too calm.

I touched my face.

The reflection was smiling.

I wasn’t.

I stepped back sharply. The reflection remained, smiling wider than I ever would. Then, slowly, it adjusted — softened — matched my expression exactly.

Normal.

The next morning, I woke up feeling lighter.

Relieved, even.

At the bus stop, the billboard flickered again. Faces stretched. Eyes misaligned.

I didn’t react.

The bus arrived three minutes late.

Inside, a child dropped her juice box. The liquid hesitated midair.

“It’s alright,” her mother said gently.

I nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

At work, Daniel walked into the glass wall.

I didn’t flinch.

The reports were blank.

I reviewed them carefully.

At lunch, Sarah said, “The sky was green this morning.”

“It hummed,” I replied, smiling.

She nodded.

Outside, the leash still led nowhere.

But that was fine.

Everything was fine.

I passed a shop window and caught my reflection.

Calm.

Composed.

Normal.

Everyone was acting normally.

And so was I.