The universe ended every time Dr. Nova Consciousness blinked.
She'd discovered this unfortunate fact six months ago during a routine quantum measurement experiment at the Institute for Advanced Physics. Now, standing in the observation chamber surrounded by sensors that monitored reality itself, she kept her eyes forcibly open until they burned.
"You have to blink eventually," said her research partner, Dr. Axiom Reality, his voice gentle but concerned. "You've been awake for thirty-seven hours."
"Every time I close my eyes, even for a microsecond, the wave function collapses differently," Nova explained, her voice hoarse from exhaustion. "I'm changing reality just by observing it. Or not observing it. I can't tell which is worse."
The discovery had started innocently enough. They'd been testing the observer effect at macro scales—attempting to determine if human consciousness truly influenced quantum outcomes or if it was merely measurement interference. The results had been beyond their wildest hypotheses: not only did consciousness affect quantum states, but Nova's consciousness seemed to have an exponentially stronger effect.
"Show me again," Axiom requested, though his expression suggested he'd rather not see.
Nova focused on the quantum field generator in the center of the room. It projected a simple probability cloud—a particle that existed in superposition, neither here nor there until observed. She stared at it intently, and the particle collapsed into position A. Then she blinked.
The world flickered. The particle jumped to position B. But more than that—Axiom's tie changed from blue to red. The coffee stain on his lab coat shifted three inches to the left. Through the window, a bird that had been flying east now flew west.
"Reality revision 2,847," Nova noted wearily into her recorder. "Minor alterations in local space-time. Dr. Reality's appearance shows variation type C. External environment shows standard quantum drift pattern."
"This is insane," Axiom muttered, checking his tie as if seeing it for the first time. "I remember buying a blue tie this morning. But I also remember buying a red one. Both memories feel equally real."
That was the truly disturbing part. Each time Nova blinked and reality shifted, everyone else's memories adjusted to match the new timeline. Only she remembered the variations, carrying the weight of thousands of slightly different versions of the world.
"We need to tell Director Photon," Axiom said. "This is too big for just us."
"I tried," Nova replied. "In iteration 2,339. She had me committed to psychiatric evaluation. In iteration 2,340, she believed me but the government seized our research. In iteration 2,341, she didn't exist—the Institute had a Director Neutrino instead." She laughed bitterly. "I'm the only constant across all realities, the only one who remembers. It's driving me insane."
Axiom moved closer, careful not to touch her—they'd learned that physical contact during her observations could cause more dramatic reality shifts. "There must be a pattern. A way to control it."
Nova had thought the same thing. She'd tried everything: meditation to control her consciousness, drugs to suppress it, even attempting to transfer her observer status to someone else. Nothing worked. She was locked into her role as the universe's unwitting editor.
"I've mapped 2,847 variations," she said, gesturing to walls covered in equations and diagrams. "Each blink creates a new branch, but they follow quantum probability distributions. Small changes are more likely than large ones. I've never seen anything bigger than—"
She blinked involuntarily.
The world lurched. When her eyes opened, the entire laboratory was different. The walls were green instead of white. Axiom wore glasses he hadn't needed before. Through the window, the cityscape had transformed—buildings in different positions, a river flowing where there had been a park.
"Reality revision 2,848," Nova whispered. "Major alteration. Probability of occurrence: 0.003%."
Axiom—this version of him—looked confused. "Dr. Consciousness? Are you feeling alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
He didn't remember. In this reality, they might not even be working on the same project. Nova felt the familiar despair creeping in. How many friendships had she lost to probability? How many versions of people had she known and forgotten?
"I need to show you something," she said, making a decision. "It's going to sound impossible, but I need you to believe me."
She explained everything, showing him the hidden journal she kept—the only physical object that seemed to maintain continuity across realities, possibly because it was always on her person during the shifts. Axiom's expression moved from skepticism to wonder to horror as he read her documentation of 2,847 different versions of their world.
"My God," he breathed. "You're a quantum observer. A conscious focal point for wave function collapse. Do you realize what this means?"
"That I'm cursed to reshape reality every time I blink?"
"No," Axiom said excitedly. "It means consciousness truly is fundamental to reality. You're not cursed—you're evolved. You're what happens when human consciousness achieves quantum coherence with the universe itself."
Nova wanted to share his enthusiasm, but the weight of her condition crushed any optimism. "I've unmade people, Axiom. Every time I blink, I might be erasing someone from existence, or creating them from nothing. I've seen versions of you die, get married, never be born. I can't handle the responsibility."
"Then don't," Axiom said simply. "Accept it instead."
"Accept being a reality-warping monster?"
"Accept being what you are—a natural phenomenon. The universe doesn't judge earthquakes or supernovas. They simply are. You're a conscious quantum event. Fighting it is like trying to stop being human."
Nova considered his words. In all her iterations, she'd been trying to stop the effect, to return to normal. But what if normal had never been an option? What if she was simply the universe's way of exploring its own possibilities?
"Help me," she said finally. "Help me understand what I am."
They worked through the night, Axiom brilliant and adaptable even as reality shifted around them. Each time Nova blinked, he had to be re-convinced, but his fundamental curiosity remained constant across all versions. Together, they developed a new framework for understanding her condition.
"You're not changing reality," Axiom explained during iteration 2,856. "You're navigating it. Every possible quantum state already exists. You're just choosing which one to experience."
"But what about everyone else? They don't get to choose."
"Don't they? Every decision, every observation, collapses wave functions. You just do it on a larger scale. You're not playing God—you're playing quantum dice, and sometimes you roll for the entire local universe."
The revelation didn't cure Nova's condition, but it changed her relationship with it. She began to see patterns in the chaos, ways to influence the probability of certain outcomes. Small, conscious intentions during the blink seemed to weight the quantum dice.
By iteration 2,900, she had achieved a measure of control. The shifts became less random, more purposeful. She couldn't stop them, but she could guide them toward beneficial outcomes—a sick child in the hospital suddenly recovering, a crucial scientific breakthrough occurring years early, small kindnesses rippling through reality.
"You're getting better at this," Axiom noted during iteration 2,913. This version wore a purple tie—Nova had been experimenting with aesthetic changes. "The transitions are smoother. Reality seems more... stable around you."
"I'm learning to work with it instead of against it," Nova admitted. "Though I still wonder—why me? Why am I the observer?"
"Maybe you're not the only one," Axiom suggested. "Maybe there are others like you, each navigating their own probability streams. Maybe reality is more fluid than we think, constantly edited by countless conscious observers."
The thought was both comforting and terrifying. Nova imagined a universe where everyone was secretly reshaping reality with every observation, most unaware of their influence. Perhaps that explained the strange coincidences, the unlikely events, the way life sometimes seemed to follow narrative rules rather than physical ones.
She blinked, this time intentionally.
The world shifted, but gently, like a boat rocking on calm water rather than storming seas. In this iteration, Axiom smiled at her—not the confused smile of a colleague, but the warm smile of someone who understood.
"Welcome to iteration 2,914," he said, revealing that somehow, in this reality, he remembered. "I think you're getting the hang of being a quantum god."
"Not a god," Nova corrected, feeling lighter than she had in months. "Just a very specialized observer in a universe that requires observation to exist. We're all collapsing wave functions. I just do it with style."
She looked out the window at the city beyond—a city that had been rebuilt thousands of times by her unconscious observations. Each version was real, each had its own history and future. She was not destroying realities but surfing across them, a conscious wave riding the quantum foam.
For the first time since discovering her condition, Dr. Nova Consciousness closed her eyes without fear. When she opened them, the universe would be different. But then again, it always was, with every heartbeat, every thought, every observation.
She was the Observer Effect made manifest, and finally, she was at peace with watching the universe watch itself through her eyes.