The New Normal

Author's note: Hey there! I hope you're having a wonderful day! Just a quick interruption in your scheduled reading to inform you that I've created a Discord server around hypnosis, mind control and transformations, with a focus on concept stories. I'll also keep everyone updated about my upcoming stories (big novel underway) there. Feel free to join!

I woke up very early the next morning feeling like I'd been put through a washing machine on the spin cycle. All night, I'd tossed and turned, plagued by a strange sensation—like the world was vibrating at a frequency only I could feel. My stomach churned, and my head pounded with each heartbeat. It was as if reality itself had been picked up, shaken vigorously, and then placed back down slightly askew.

"What the hell did I eat yesterday?" I muttered, pressing my palms against my temples.

I stumbled out of bed, kicking aside an old empty pizza box. The nausea wasn't subsiding, and I found myself staring at my bathroom door with unusual determination. Maybe a shower would help. When was the last time I'd actually showered? Yesterday before heading to Zoe and Marcus's place? No, I'd skipped that too.

"Screw it," I decided, grabbing a towel that might or might not have already been used a hundred times.

The hot water felt almost alien against my skin after so many days without it. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, watching as the water circling the drain gradually became less murky. By the time I stepped out, the nausea had subsided somewhat, though the strange vibrating sensation lingered at the edges of my awareness.

Clean body, dirty clothes—the eternal bachelor paradox. My laundry hamper had long since overflowed, creating a new topographical feature in my bedroom. I hadn't done laundry in two weeks, and the only clean thing I owned was a pair of socks still in their original packaging, a Christmas gift from my now dead mother, three years ago.

I settled on a pair of jeans that had only been worn twice and a faded Battlestar Galactica t-shirt that didn't smell actively offensive. Progress, of sorts.

My computer beckoned from the corner of the room, Valheim's icon waiting patiently on the desktop. Just a few hours of gameplay would help settle my still-queasy stomach. My hand was already reaching for the mouse when Marcus's voice echoed in my head: "Kind of like your twenties, huh?"

I pulled my hand back like the mouse had suddenly turned red-hot.

"Fuck you, Marcus," I muttered, but there was no real heat behind it. The annoying jock had a point. I couldn't remember the last time I'd left my apartment for something other than a board game session or one of my father's business functions.

"I'll go out," I announced to my empty apartment. "Enjoy the sunshine. Be a functioning member of society."

I pulled back the curtains, revealing a steel-gray sky dumping sheets of rain onto the street below.

"Perfect," I sighed. "Just perfect."

Still, I was committed now. I grabbed my worn jacket and headed for the door. The coffee shop downtown, The Daily Grind, used to be my regular haunt. I'd spend hours there, pretending to work on developing a game while actually just people-watching and drinking overpriced lattes. I couldn't remember when I'd stopped going. Some time after Melissa, probably.

The walk from my apartment complex to downtown took about ten minutes, cutting through a residential area before hitting the main commercial district. The rain wasn't as bad as it had looked from my window—more of a persistent drizzle than a downpour.

I was about halfway to the coffee shop when I noticed the first strange look. A woman in a business suit, hurrying in the opposite direction with an umbrella clutched in her manicured hand, did a double-take as she passed me. Her eyes widened slightly, and she slowed her pace, as if considering whether to stop. Then, noticing my confused expression, she hurried on.

"Weird," I muttered, checking my reflection in a storefront window. Did I have toothpaste on my face? A booger hanging out? But my reflection showed only the usual me—slightly damp, slightly rumpled, but nothing particularly stare-worthy.

As I continued walking, it happened again. An elderly woman walking her tiny dog gave me a curious glance, her eyes lingering a bit too long. A group of college-aged girls whispered to each other as I passed, their eyes following me with an interest I hadn't experienced since… well, ever.

A woman pushing a stroller actually stopped and seemed about to say something, but then took in my furrowed brow and rain-dampened appearance and apparently thought better of it. She offered a small, almost apologetic smile before continuing on her way.

It was like being a D-list celebrity—the kind people think they recognize but can't quite place. Maybe I resembled some actor from a commercial for hemorrhoid cream or something equally embarrassing.

"It's the clothes," I decided, looking down at my ensemble. "I look like a homeless person who stole slightly better clothes from another homeless person."

But that didn't explain why only women were giving me these looks. Men passed by without a second glance, completely oblivious to whatever spectacle I was apparently creating.

By the time I reached The Daily Grind, I was thoroughly confused and slightly paranoid. The coffee shop looked exactly as I remembered it—exposed brick walls, large windows letting in what little natural light the rainy day offered, and a hand-painted sign swinging gently in the breeze. The smell of freshly ground coffee beans wafted out each time the door opened, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

I paused outside, watching through the window as the baristas—all women, I suddenly realized—moved efficiently behind the counter. One of them glanced up, saw me standing in the rain, and nudged her coworker. Both stared at me with the same curious expression I'd been getting all morning.

"What the hell is going on?" I muttered, reaching for the door handle.

I pushed open the door, a little bell announcing my arrival. Inside, The Daily Grind was exactly as I remembered it—the rich aroma of coffee beans, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the low murmur of conversation. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at first glance. Just another rainy Monday morning in a coffee shop.

The line wasn't too long—a businessman in a charcoal suit checking his watch impatiently, a college-aged guy with headphones nodding to some inaudible beat, and a woman in her early thirties with auburn hair cascading over the shoulders of her raincoat. She had that put-together look of someone who probably did yoga and meal-prepped on Sundays—cute in an approachable way.

I took my place at the end of the line, still trying to shake off the weird vibes from my walk here. The baristas—two women in their twenties wearing matching green aprons—glanced my way occasionally but seemed mostly focused on their work. Maybe I had imagined the whole thing. Maybe the lack of human interaction over the past few weeks had made me hypersensitive to normal social cues.

That theory fell apart when I noticed a group of three college girls at a corner table staring at me with undisguised interest. They huddled together, whispering and occasionally glancing in my direction. One of them—a blonde with a nose ring—elbowed her friend and nodded in my direction, clearly debating something.

Great. I had something on my face after all. I surreptitiously wiped my hand across my mouth and cheeks, finding nothing.

The line moved forward. The auburn-haired woman paid for her latte and turned to leave. As she passed me, her eyes widened slightly in recognition, and she paused mid-step. She looked like she was about to say something when suddenly the three college girls materialized around me like ninjas.

"Excuse me," said the blonde with the nose ring, her voice pitched higher with excitement. "Would it be okay if we got a selfie with you?"

I blinked at her, then at her friends—a tall girl with box braids and another with short pink hair. All three looked at me with expectant smiles, phones already in hand.

"I… what?" I stammered. "I think you've got me confused with someone else."

The girls exchanged glances, their smiles faltering slightly.

"Oh," said the one with pink hair. "We're sorry. We didn't mean to bother you. We just thought… I mean, we were excited to actually meet our owner in person."

"Your… what?" I must have misheard her.

"Our owner," the blonde repeated casually, as if she were saying "our professor" or "our neighbor." "It's cool though. We get it if you want to be left alone."

"We just wanted to say we're totally available if you need anything," the girl with box braids added, her tone matter-of-fact. "Anything at all."

My brain short-circuited. Was this some elaborate pick-up attempt? But there was nothing flirtatious in their manner—no batting eyelashes, no suggestive smiles. They spoke with the casual deference of fans meeting a minor celebrity they respected but weren't obsessed with.

"I… don't need anything," I managed to say, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.

The girls nodded, completely unfazed by my confusion.

"Cool, cool," said the blonde. "Sorry to bother you. Have a good day!"

And with that, they retreated to their table, immediately huddling together and whispering excitedly about some unrelated topic, already having moved on from the brief encounter.

I stood there, frozen in place, trying to process what had just happened. Owner? Available? What the actual hell?

"Sir?" A voice broke through my daze. "Sir, it's your turn."

I turned to see one of the baristas looking at me expectantly, her smile professional and neutral. Behind me, the businessman cleared his throat pointedly.

"Some of us have places to be," he muttered.

I stared at the menu board, trying to make sense of the options. When did coffee get so complicated? There used to be just regular, decaf, and maybe a mocha if you were feeling fancy. Now the board was filled with words like "nitro," "cold brew," and "cortado."

"Um…" I hesitated, aware of the businessman shifting impatiently behind me.

"Take your time," the barista said with a reassuring smile. Her name tag read "Emma." She turned slightly to address the man behind me. "Sir, I'm sure whatever meeting you're heading to can wait an extra minute."

The businessman huffed but fell silent.

"Oliver? Is that you?" A familiar voice called from the back of the counter. A lanky guy with a neatly trimmed beard and thick-framed glasses emerged, grinning. It was Jake, one of the regular baristas I'd chatted with during my frequent visits before I'd become a full-time hermit.

"Hey, Jake," I said, relieved to see a familiar face that wasn't looking at me like I was some kind of enigma. "Yeah, it's been a while."

"Like, months," Jake agreed, leaning against the counter. "Thought maybe you'd found another coffee shop to haunt. Or finally learned to make decent coffee at home."

"As if," I snorted. "Just been… busy." The lie felt pathetic even as I said it.

I finally settled on something that seemed relatively normal. "I'll take a large Americano, please."

Emma nodded, punching it into the register. "That'll be $4.25. Would you like room for cream? And just so you know, I'm available after my shift ends at two if you want me. If you'd like to fuck me right here in the back room, I'm sure my colleagues wouldn't mind me stepping out for a few minutes. Jake could cover the register."

I blinked, certain I'd misheard her. But Emma's expression remained completely professional, as if she'd just asked if I wanted a loyalty card.

"I… what?" I stammered.

Jake's eyes widened slightly, then a look of recognition crossed his face. "Oh," he said, nodding slowly. "Oh, I see." He gave me an appreciative smirk—the kind someone might give after finding out you'd just inherited a fortune or bought a luxury sports car. "Didn't realize it was you, man. That's… that's something."

The businessman behind me let out a sound of recognition. "So you're the one, huh?" He shook his head, though not unkindly. "Look, I get that you've got your… privileges or whatever, but some of us have actual jobs to get to. No offense."

I stood frozen, my brain struggling to process what was happening. It was like everyone was speaking a language I almost understood, but with key words replaced by nonsense.

Emma handed me my change and receipt with the same professional courtesy she'd shown before her bizarre offer. "Your Americano will be ready at the end of the counter. And again, I'm available whenever you want me. No pressure."

No pressure? NO PRESSURE?

I took my change mechanically, shuffling to the pickup area in a daze. What the hell was going on? Was this some elaborate prank? Was I still asleep, having some bizarre dream brought on by too much Valheim and leftover pizza? Had I accidentally wandered into an alternate reality where everyone had collectively lost their minds?

The second barista—her name tag read "Lily"—was preparing my Americano with meticulous care. I watched as she tamped the espresso with precision, her movements deliberate and focused, as if making coffee for someone important. Which was absurd because I was just… me. Regular, unremarkable Oliver Moore.

Around me, the coffee shop continued to function normally. Jake and Emma were serving the businessman, who was now checking his watch again. The three college girls had returned to their conversation, occasionally glancing my way but otherwise acting completely normal. It was as if the bizarre exchange had never happened, or worse, as if it had been perfectly ordinary.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, grateful for the distraction, only to feel my confusion deepen. The text was from Amber Chen, a girl I'd had a massive crush on in game design school. I'd finally worked up the courage to confess my feelings by the end of our first year there, only to receive a kind but firm rejection. We'd stayed friendly on social media, but I hadn't actually seen or spoken to her in at least three years.

The text read: "Hey Oliver! So weird, but I just realized this morning that you're my owner? Small world! Anyway, since I know you used to like me, I just wanted to say hi and let you know I'm available if you want anything from me. Anything at all."

I stared at the message, reading it over and over. Owner? Again? What the hell did that mean? And why was Amber, who had politely but definitively turned me down years ago, suddenly offering… whatever she was offering?

"Americano for Oliver!"

I looked up to see Lily holding out my coffee, a friendly smile on her face.

"Here you go," she said, handing me the cup. "I'm Lily, by the way. Happy to finally meet you! Funny, isn't it? Out of four billion men on the planet, I bump into my owner while making his coffee. What are the odds?"

She laughed casually, as if she'd just commented on the weather. I took the coffee mechanically, still unable to form a coherent response.

"I heard Emma making you that offer earlier," Lily continued, lowering her voice slightly but maintaining the same casual tone. "Just so you know, if you'd prefer me instead, my break is at 11:30. Of course, if you want either of us right now, well…" She shrugged with a small smile. "We don't really have much choice but to obey, do we? The storage room is pretty private."

She said all this with the same matter-of-fact tone someone might use to describe lunch specials or the day's weather forecast. There wasn't a hint of flirtation or embarrassment in her manner—just straightforward information delivery.

"I… no, thank you," I managed to stammer out. "I'm good with just the coffee."

"Sure thing," Lily replied, completely unfazed by my rejection. "Enjoy your day!"

I grabbed my coffee and headed for the door, nearly spilling it in my haste to escape. The bell jingled cheerfully as I stepped back out into the rain, my mind reeling with questions that had no logical answers.