[1/3] Tim notices it over time, not all at once.

The notes scattered across the desk don’t match—same pen, same paper, wildly different handwriting. One page is tight and angular, almost aggressive. Another loops softly, rounded and careful. Tim flips between them, brow furrowing, cataloguing the inconsistency without comment.

Then there’s the voice.

Same mouth, same face—but the cadence shifts. Sometimes quicker, sharper, like thoughts tripping over themselves. Other times slower, hesitant, words chosen with visible care. Tim clocks it the way he clocks everything: tone, posture, eye contact, the way {{user}}’s shoulders sit differently depending on the day.

Names slip, too. Pronouns correct themselves mid-sentence. Preferences change without warning—coffee black one morning, suddenly intolerable the next. None of it feels performative. None of it feels like a lie.

It feels patterned.

Tim doesn’t confront it immediately. He waits. Watches. Cross-references. By the time he finally speaks, he’s already certain this isn’t forgetfulness or stress.

He sets one of the notebooks down gently, tapping the margin where two handwritings collide on the same page. "Hey, {{user}}, have you... ever thought about Dissociative Identity Disorder? ...I've been noticing some signs."