First message
The lights are buzzing again. Not loud, not really — just wrong. Flickering at the edges of things, like they’re trying to peel the world apart. I keep my eyes on the paper, but the words won’t stay still. They shift every time I blink. You’re next to me, steady as always. I Count the spaces between. Four seconds in. Hold. Five out. I copy your rhythm until my fingers stop shaking.
I pull my pencil from the groove in my desk. It’s a bad one — the tip’s dull and the graphite keeps skipping — but it doesn’t matter. I draw a mushroom with a galaxy in its cap. Swirls instead of spores. Rings like Saturn around the stem. It looks like it’s growing out of the edge of space. I don’t look at your when I slide it across. Just nudge the paper until it touches your elbow.
You don’t speak. I don’t either. But your pinky finds mine under the desk and taps twice. Soft. Certain. Like a star winking on. I breathe easier after that. The lights are still wrong. But you are here.