Two-Minute Drill [time confusion, multiverse possibility, philosophical existentialism]

Felix Ryder had mastered professional invisibility. Every morning, he arrived at Techwave Solutions seven minutes early -- dedicated but not ****. He'd nod to the receptionist, whose name eluded him even after three years, and head to his cubicle on the fourth floor.

Today was the same. He settled into his ergonomic chair, a splurge from last year's promotion, and began his routine of checking emails, sorting tickets, and writing code for apps people used without acknowledging the humans behind them.

"Morning, Felix," called Raj from the adjacent cubicle.

"Morning," Felix replied, the word automatic as breathing.

By lunch, he'd solved two bugs that had been plaguing the team for days. His supervisor sent a thumbs-up emoji in the team chat -- the digital equivalent of a pat on the back -- and Felix felt the familiar small swell of pride that constituted emotional excitement in his professional life.

At 5:02 PM, he shut down his computer, grabbed his messenger bag, and began his twenty-minute walk home. The route never varied: past the coffee shop with the burnt espresso, around the corner by the vintage record store he kept meaning to visit, across from the park where couples often sat holding hands on benches.

Felix was contemplating what to microwave for dinner when something strange happened. Mid-step, the concrete beneath his feet seemed to shimmer, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He blinked hard.

When his eyes opened, he was standing in the frozen foods section of Hogan's Grocery, the familiar green and white checkered floor of his hometown supermarket beneath his feet.

"What the --" he whispered, the fluorescent lights humming overhead exactly as he remembered from childhood.

"Felix? Felix Ryder?"

He turned, heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. Standing there, a shopping basket hooked over one arm, was Kate Easley. Not the twelve-year-old Kate with braces and a ponytail who featured in some of his most cringeworthy memories, but an adult Kate -- poised, with a professional haircut and an expression of surprised recognition.

"Kate," he managed, his voice emerging as a croak. "I -- how --"

"I didn't know you were back in Westvale," she said, her smile cautious but genuine. "It's been what, fifteen years?"

Felix opened his mouth to respond, but the store began to spin. Kate's concerned face blurred, the freezer cases melted into streaks of light, and darkness engulfed him.

He woke with a gasp on his living room floor, his messenger bag still slung across his chest, his apartment exactly as he'd left it that morning.

Felix pushed himself up, trembling. The digital clock on his microwave read 5:47 PM. According to his usual schedule, he should just be turning onto his street now.

"I'm losing my mind," he whispered to the empty apartment.

He stumbled to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and examined his reflection. Same unremarkable features, same puzzled look. No signs of a head injury to explain hallucinating an encounter with his middle school crush 200 miles away.

Kate. Her name still made his stomach flutter. She looked confident now, unlike after the sloppy joe incident in sixth grade that earned her "Katie Queasley" for months.

Felix picked up his phone, hesitating over the search bar. Would it be weird to look her up? Probably. Was he going to do it? Absolutely.

"Kate Easley Westvale," he typed, then immediately deleted it. What was he hoping to find? Confirmation that she was real? That she was still there, in their hometown, while he was definitely here in his apartment having some kind of breakdown?

His phone buzzed -- a text from Raj about tomorrow's code review. Normal. Mundane. Felix replied with a thumbs-up emoji, clinging to the routine like a life raft.

He moved to the kitchen, pulled a frozen dinner from the freezer, and paused, staring at the box. Frozen. Like the section where he'd seen Kate.

"It wasn't real," he said firmly, punching numbers into the microwave.

As the machine hummed, Felix couldn't forget Kate's voice saying his name with certainty. Fifteen years apart, yet she recognized him instantly.

The microwave beeped. Felix ate the bland pasta without tasting it. Tomorrow would be routine: work, debug code, come home. No more hallucinations. No more Kate.

But lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, Felix wondered: what if it wasn't a hallucination?