How to Say...

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It had happened so quickly that Paul, at first, hadn’t even noticed. It was only when he reached out for his coffee cup on the table that he raised his eyes. And then, he understood: Jules was gone.

Just a moment earlier, they had been chatting as usual, without any particular passion, about a documentary they’d watched the night before. Jules, slouched on the couch, was idly rolling a one or two-euro coin between his fingers. He’d made some comment about the evolution of species, something so unremarkable it slipped away as soon as it was said. At first, Paul had nodded, and then, just like that... he was alone.

There hadn’t been any noise. No sudden movement. Jules’ half-full coffee cup still rested on the table, its liquid just starting to cool. The cushion where he had been sitting still bore the faint impression of his weight, slightly sunken. But Jules was gone.

Paul sat there for a long moment, frozen, his expression blank, as though time itself had hesitated to continue. Then he stood, moving around the room, calling softly:
“Jules? Jules!”

He opened the bathroom door, peeked into the bedroom. But nothing. Not in the hallway, not on the landing. This wasn’t one of those sudden departures where someone leaves without a word, suitcase in hand, the silence of a quiet farewell left behind. No, Jules had simply vanished.

Paul returned to the living room. The coffee was cooling, the coin lay still on the coffee table. Everything seemed strangely frozen. He sat on the couch, in the exact spot Jules had occupied, as if trying to absorb the residual warmth of his presence. But there was nothing—just the oppressive sensation of an inexplicable absence.

And then, he noticed something. Something subtle, almost imperceptible. The air felt different, as if charged with electricity. Every sound seemed slightly muffled, as though the entire world had shifted ever so slightly out of place.

“Jules?” Paul murmured again, but his voice sounded foreign to him... absurd.

Somewhere deep down, he knew he wouldn’t find an answer. Jules wasn’t gone because he’d run away or hidden—no, somehow, Jules no longer existed in this world. Maybe he never had.

Paul sat there, unable to move, overwhelmed by a vertigo that wasn’t exactly fear but rather a deep, dissonant unease. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: What if it was him—Paul—who had slipped into some forgotten corner of reality?

And then, Jules burst through the door, shouting:
“It’s alright, I got the rolling papers!”