Chapter 41: Biscuits (1)
NIGHTMART – EXIT
The cashier handed him the plastic bag.
"Thank you, sir. Come again."
El nodded. Took the bag. Walked toward the door.
The automatic doors slid open.
Cold air hit his face.
He stepped outside.
Bump.
A body collided with his.
The plastic bag slipped from his hand.
Groceries scattered across the pavement.
Bread. Eggs. Biscuit. Coffee.
"I'm sorry—"
El crouched down. Started gathering his things.
"It's alright, young man."
The voice was dry. Rustling. Like leaves across pavement.
El looked up.
An old woman stood over him.
Her face was a map of wrinkles. Her eyes were sharp — impossibly sharp.
Like she'd seen things no eyes should see. She clutched a worn leather bag to her chest.
And she was smiling.
Teeth too white. Too perfect.
Those eyes.
Where have I seen those eyes before?
Why do they feel familiar?
Why does she feel familiar?
"You forgot to buy your crackers," she said.
El blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Crackers. You didn't buy any."
El stared at her.
Crackers.
The word hit him like a physical blow.
Every time.
Every single time.
"I... I don't need crackers anymore." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "I'm a biscuit perso—"
He stopped.
Why am I telling her this?
Why am I explaining myself to a stranger?
Why does she feel like she already knows?
He opened his mouth to ask.
"How did you—"
But the old woman was already walking away.
The door to NightMart was closing. She slipped inside. Her worn leather bag swinging at her side.
El stood there. Frozen.
Plastic bag in hand. Heart pounding.
Who was she?
How did she know about the crackers?
Why did she ask?
Why did it feel like she already knew the answer?
Why did it feel like she was testing him?
He looked at the door.
I should go after her.
I should ask her.
I should—
He didn't move.
The door closed.
She disappeared behind the shelves.
Too late.
She's gone.
Inside.
And I'm just standing here.
Like an idiot.
Like always.
He shook his head.
I'm overthinking again.
She's just an old lady.
Just a stranger.
Just someone who noticed he didn't buy crackers.
Nothing more.
Nothing—
He looked at the biscuit in his bag.
"I'm a biscuit person now."
That's what he told her.
That's what he told himself.
But was it true?
Had he really moved on?
Or was he just pretending?
Trading one trap for another?
He didn't know.
He didn't know anything.
He walked home.
---
LANDSBURGE STREETS – NIGHT
The street was quiet. Streetlights glowed against the pavement. The city hummed in the distance.
El walked slowly. Plastic bag swinging at his side.
His mind was still stuck on the old woman.
Crackers.
Biscuit.
Trading one trap for another.
What did that even mean?
Why did it feel like she was warning him?
Or testing him?
Or—
"Hey."
He stopped.
Looked up.
Demi was leaning against a lamppost across the street. Grinning. Chip bag in hand.
Of course.
He lives across the street.
Of course he's here.
Of course he's eating chips.
Of course he's grinning like an idiot.
"You should text me," Demi called out.
"We could go on a date. For your mental health."
El stared at him.
"A date."
"Yes. A date. Two friends. One night. Zero emotional baggage."
"You just ate chips at a lamppost."
"I'm setting the mood."
"For what?"
"For our date. Duh."
Demi crunched a chip.
"You look like you need it. You've been weird all week. Weirder than usual. And I've been supportive. I've listened to your time loop theories. I've pretended to believe you. I even ate your stale cracker. That's friendship, El. That's love."
El's eyebrow twitched.
"That's not love. That's hunger."
"Same thing."
Demi pushed off the lamppost. Walked across the street. Stopped in front of El.
"Come on. Let's grab coffee. Or tea. Or something stronger. I don't care. Just... stop looking like someone died."
El looked at his plastic bag. At the biscuit inside.
Trading one trap for another.
"I need to put my groceries away."
"Then put them away. I'll wait."
"You live across the street. You don't need to wait."
"I'm being polite."
"You're being annoying."
"Same thing." Demi grinned.
"Go. Put your eggs in the fridge. Then come back. We're going on a date. It's for your mental health. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"I play one in my head."
El stared at him.
This is my life.
This is my best friend.
This is what normal looks like.
Chips. Bad jokes. Forced dates.
No loops.
No lost days.
No dying gardens.
Just... Demi.
Just... normal.
He needed normal.
Even if normal came with a side of chaos.
"Fine," El said. "One date."
Demi pumped his fist.
"YES. I'm already planning the conversation topics. We're going to talk about your feelings. And my feelings. And how we both need therapy."
"I don't need therapy."
"You're talking to yourself in a grocery store parking lot at night."
"That's not—"
"That's therapy, El. Bad therapy. But still therapy."
El didn't respond.
He walked toward his apartment.
Demi's voice followed him.
"I'LL BE HERE! TAKE YOUR TIME! I'M NOT GOING ANYWHERE!"
He's not going anywhere.
He never goes anywhere.
He just... stays.
Lucky me.
EL'S APARTMENT–NIGHT
El unlocked the door. Stepped inside.
The apartment was dark. Quiet. The only light came from the streetlamp outside his window.
Oreo was curled on the sofa. Fast asleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell. Her paws twitched slightly — probably dreaming of tuna.
El stopped. Watched her.
So peaceful.
So unaware.
So innocent.
She doesn't know about the loops.
About the lost days.
About the dying gardens.
She just sleeps.
She just dreams.
She just exists.
Lucky cat.
He walked to the kitchen. Opened the refrigerator. Started putting away the groceries.
Bread on top of the fridge. Eggs in the door. Biscuit in the cabinet. Coffee next to the coffee maker.
Normal things.
Ordinary things.
Things that didn't involve time loops and dying gardens and lost Tuesdays.
Things that kept him human.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
El froze.
Who—
His phone buzzed.
DEMI: I'm on the outside of your apartment.
El stared at the screen.
He's here.
At my door.
Knocking.
Why is he knocking?
He knows he can just come in.
He always just comes in.
He never knocks.
El typed back:
EL: You can come in. Stop knocking on my door.
DEMI: Huh?
DEMI: I'm on the ground floor.
DEMI: What are you talking about? Knocking?
El's blood ran cold.
Ground floor.
He's on the ground floor.
But someone knocked on my door.
Someone knocked.
Someone is—
He typed:
EL: You just knocked on my door. Stop playing pranks on me.
A pause.
DEMI: I'm dead serious.
DEMI: I'm on the ground floor.
DEMI: [Photo sent]
The photo showed Demi standing outside the building. Streetlights behind him. Chip bag in hand. Grinning.
Behind him — the street. The lamppost. The empty sidewalk.
No stairs. No second floor. No door.
He's on the ground floor.
He didn't knock.
He couldn't have knocked.
But someone knocked.
Someone was at my door.
Someone—