The ceiling fan spun in slow, lazy circles. He watched it move, noticing the rhythm of the blades, the way the air felt cooler on one side of his face than the other.

Something felt… different today.

He sat up, gripping the blanket in his small hands. The fabric was soft but slightly rough in some spots—Mom had probably washed it too many times. The thought came and went automatically, like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

His eyes wandered across the room. It was a kid's room—stuffed animals lined the shelves, and a few scattered toys sat by his race car bed. Everything was familiar. And yet, his mind felt like it was moving faster, picking up details he never noticed before.

He wasn't scared. Just aware.

His legs swung over the side of the bed, and when he hopped down, his feet landed just right. He barely had to think about it.

Weird.

Most of the kids in preschool tripped over their own feet, but walking, running—and moving—felt easy. Like he already knew how to do it better than everyone else.

Before he could think about it too much, yelling from the hallway caught his attention.

"Ross, stay out of my room!"

"Relax, Monica! I just needed a pencil!"

"You broke my pencil!"

"It was already broken!"

His lips twitched.

Monica, eleven years old, had a short fuse. Ross, thirteen, liked pushing her buttons. It was the same every day—Monica got mad, Ross played innocent, and then…

"Monica! Stop yelling at your brother!" Their mother's voice—Judy Geller—cut through the argument.

"But he's the one—"

"No buts, young lady!"

Right on cue.

He stepped into the hallway just as Monica stomped past him, her curly brown hair bouncing with every angry step. She barely glanced at him, too focused on being mad.

Ross stood in the living room, twirling the broken pencil between his fingers like a prize. He smirked.

"Everything good?" Their dad, Jack Geller, peeked over his newspaper.

"Yeah," Ross answered casually.

The four-year-old just watched, silent. It was like a game they played every day. Ross always won because Mom took his side.

Huh.

Monica turned around suddenly, her eyes landing on him for the first time.

She hesitated.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

He tilted his head, thinking. "Like what?"

She squinted at him, then shook her head. "Never mind."

And just like that, she stomped off to her room.

Ross gave him a lazy grin before heading to the couch, happy with his victory.

The four-year-old stayed in place for a moment, his mind working through what had just happened. He wasn't just watching—he was understanding things in a way that felt automatic.

He was different. He knew that now.

And something told him this was just the beginning.