(Third-person opener → then first-person Enkei • Tone: tense & nocturnal at night, light & flirty in the morning)
Night pressed down on the city like a thick blanket that refused to be nudged aside. Dorm windows left lazy yellow dots breathing in the dark. On the eighth floor, a room kept its desk lamp burning too long. The desk was simple—laminated wood with a peeling edge—but its switch seemed to understand its owner's habit: switch on when the mind won't shut down. The ceiling fan cleaved the air in uneven counts—whumm… whumm… whumm—pausing for a fraction of a second as if reconsidering its contract before spinning again.
In a swivel chair, a young man stared at a book without reading it: same page, same paragraph, same sentence for the last thirty minutes. On the corkboard, a neat slip listed tomorrow's classes, yet his gaze skipped past all that and landed on a shadow creeping beneath the circle of light.
Night stretched, and the room—like the city, like the lamp, like the fan—waited for something unnamed.
---
I'm not usually restless. Normally, if something bothers me, I tidy it up in my head like a digital file: select—cut—move to the "later" folder. But tonight, the "later" folder was full. I shut the book, checked my watch, checked my phone—no messages, just throwaway notifications from campus groups. I stood, took two steps—two steps, how ironic—and stopped. My small room smelled of old coffee and dish soap; not romantic, but at least honest.
Mira. The name sat behind my eyes, staring back whenever I tried to close them. Silver hair, a steady voice, a gaze that didn't flinch. "I like storms," she'd said this afternoon, as if that were the most ordinary thing. Normal people say, "I like ice cream." She says, storms. Too blunt. Too direct to the center of my problem.
I let out a long breath and peeled the curtain aside to look at the city's glow. From the eighth floor, the streetlights looked like a constellation that refused arrangement. I pressed my forehead to the glass. Cold. Calming. The desk lamp dipped half a notch, then steadied—a shift no one else would notice, but to me it felt like the world giving a tiny cough.
"Easy," I told the lamp, the window, myself. "You're fine."
Back to the desk. Lab papers stacked in a patient heap, letters wanting to be untangled. I forced two paragraphs—success, though half my brain wandered off. Every so often, for no specific reason, I smiled. Realizing it, I erased the smile with a frown on reflex.
Restlessness wears many faces: fingers tapping wood, a foot counting tiles, a mind that procrastinates on purpose. Tonight, it was Mira's outline refusing to leave the room.
I switched the lamp off. Darkness steered my thoughts down a different lane: quieter, denser. The fan still counted the air. On the bed, I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. There's a small crack in the corner—I know it by heart. Another hairline a little over—also memorized. Anything countable gives me control. Night laughed at my metrics.
My eyes closed. Not fully, but enough to trade worlds.
---
Morning arrived like someone knocking too early. I don't remember when I fell asleep—or if it counted as sleep. I woke with a slight weight behind my eyes and shoulders that felt like they'd carried something in a dream. Phone: 06:41. The fan kept faithfully turning; the desk lamp had surrendered and gone quiet.
I sat up, rubbed my face. A vague moment refused to be tracked: a warmth that didn't come from the blanket, a trace of a smile I've never seen in my mirror, and a detail that ran whenever I tried to catch it. My brain concluded one thing: Don't analyze.
"Morning," I told the empty room—a weird habit, but calming. The room, thankfully, didn't answer.
Morning ritual: water on the face, teeth, hair combed to minimal compliance (looks neat without really being neat), light gray shirt, dark pants, clean shoes because I'm too lazy to look at dirt. The tiny coffee machine on top of the wardrobe—a gift from Ren to "keep the human in me"—earned a chance to perform.
I pressed the button. The machine muttered: rrrr… tik… tik… rrr… Then stalled. The indicator blinked once—I stared it down with a soft, implied threat. It understood and continued, pouring black liquid whose smell improved its reputation.
"Good," I said. Praise is rare from me to appliances. Today it earned it.
In the dorm hall, residents drifted by: headphones person, running-for-ego person, zipped-to-the-neck person. I ran into Tatang, the janitor who always greets first.
"Shiron, morning," Tatang said, pushing his mop cart with the authority of a captain.
"Morning, sir," I replied. "Eighth floor all clear?"
"All clear. Except the fan in 806 sounds like an old motor."
"806?" I tilted my head. "I'm 808."
"Thank goodness," he said. "If not, I'd ask your fan to race it."
Mental note: don't let 806's fan meet mine; the world isn't ready.
At the campus stop, Ren waited with a dramatic stance: hands on hips, fake panting, the face of someone who just saved the world. "I've been waiting for—"
"You arrived three minutes ago," I cut in. "I saw your status go online."
"You ruin the stage," he groaned. "So, how was your night, Mr. Storm?"
"Normal," I said too quickly. Ren narrowed his eyes; a sly smile slid up.
"Normal means you didn't sleep, stared at the ceiling, thought about someone with sil—"
"Coffee?" I offered the spare cup.
He took it. "Accepted. I'll stop asking for three minutes."
"Heard class got moved," I said.
"B-3. Smaller, brighter, closer—" He waggled his brows in a way that made me regret friendship. "—you know."
I rolled my eyes. The campus bus arrived; we boarded. The short ride played posters on small screens no one watched.
---
Cognitive Lab B-3 had its own scent: cleaning alcohol, fresh plastic, and nerves. The room wasn't big—fifteen people max—with long tables split into left and right. The ceiling LEDs spread out evenly, as if refusing drama.
Mira was already there.
She sat at the left table—outer seat—flipping open a small notebook with a pen that glinted faintly. Her silver hair fell naturally, not too tidy, which somehow felt intentional. When I walked in, she looked up, and that smile—the one that wasn't too sweet, not cynical, just enough—appeared.
"One," she said softly as I stepped closer.
I stopped on reflex. "What?"
"Steps," she said, all innocence. "You like counting, remember?"
Ren bumped me from behind. "You're sitting there, right? There's an empty chair—next to her."
I glanced at the right table. Full. Left table: only Mira. The seat beside her stared like an invitation that refused to be thrown away.
"Looks like," I said, "we're sharing a table."
"Looks like," Mira echoed. She slid her notebook half a palm's width, making space without comment. "Two."
I held back a smile I didn't mean to show. "Are you mocking distance or respecting it?"
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
I sat—keeping the two-step boundary in seated form: chair angled slightly, slid back a few centimeters, arms minding their own sides. Someone behind us started a small talk about a new show. The lab instructor—Ms. Hava—walked in juggling papers.
"Morning," she said. "Today we're doing a simple stimulus-response drill. Use any materials at your table. You're free to pair up. Task: create a consistent trigger and observe real-time responses. No EEG needed; just observation."
Pairs? I stared sideways without turning my head. Mira looked forward, but the corner of her mouth lifted. Ren, of course, took the back table and shot me a tiny thumbs-up—the universal sign for please don't blow up the room.
In the drawer: random supplies—foil, paper clips, rubber bands, blank paper, a marker, and—whoever left it—a small spring.
"What's our tool?" I asked.
"You choose," Mira said. "But be consistent."
"Consistency is relative."
"You like relativity."
"You like winning."
She laughed in almost-breath. "Okay. Let's do something dumb that won't make a journal. You know priming?"
"Of course."
"Then we'll play with words." She tore the foil into four small squares. "I'll write a trigger word on each. You read. We observe."
"You think I react to words?"
"I think you react to… intent. Words are just vehicles."
We set a system: four foil cards, each with a black-marker word. I didn't look while she wrote. She flipped them face down. Ms. Hava roamed, checking groups, nodding here, correcting there. When she reached us, Mira said, "We're doing word priming, ma'am."
"Observe closely," Ms. Hava said. "Record honestly."
Mira slid the first card to me. "Ready?"
"Ready." I set both hands on the table, palms open. Breath steady. Our distance? Safe.
She turned the card.
"CLOSE."
I swallowed. Nothing happened—at first. Then a one-degree rise tickled the skin on my forearm—not the room temperature; maybe imagination. The LEDs above… held steady. Thank goodness. I wrote: No clear change. Subjective: faint warmth.
Mira watched my pen. "Honest," she said. "Good."
Second card.
"STAY."
I snorted. "Is this an experiment or flirting?"
"Both can be true."
A tiny tremor tapped the table edge—ah, not a tremor, just the spring bouncing because someone bumped the table behind us. I wrote: No electrical effects. Response: brief laughter.
"Next," Mira said.
Third card.
"PATIENT."
I raised a brow. "That's more of a command."
"Commands are stimuli."
I wrote: Response: internal resistance to command; no external interference. I glanced sideways. "Are you obsessed with making me be honest?"
"No. I'm obsessed with making you admit it."
"You'll be disappointed."
"We'll see."
She waited two seconds before flipping the last card. Her hand paused at the corner, savoring the moment like a host who enjoys their own suspense. I leaned back—half relaxed, half on alert.
Fourth card.
"DANGER."
I don't know who in the room set their water cup down too hard at that exact second, but it punctuated the moment. The LED panel gave a tiny click, a single blink—not harsh, just enough to have a story. My pen froze above the paper, dotting ink.
Mira didn't look up at the ceiling. She looked at me. "Write it," she murmured, barely above a whisper.
I wrote: LED panel blinked once. No other subjects reported phenomenon (no one noticed?). Subjective pulse up two ticks.
"About those words," I said, "why those?"
"Because that's what you've been calling it," she said.
"I didn't—"
"You named it while refusing to name anything else." She propped her chin on her hand. "You label things before you dare look at them."
"Psych major?"
"Amateur. A concerned one." She tapped the table once, as if knocking. "Your turn."
I pushed the paper toward her. "I didn't write words."
"You drew?"
"I wrote… numbers." I scrawled fast on one foil card: "2." I set it facing her. "Rule."
Mira considered the number, then laughed for real this time—short, free. "Sexiest number of the day."
"'Sexy' is not scientific."
"Science flexes." She slid the card back toward me and, without touching me, lifted her index finger—stopping just shy of crossing the two-step border in table form. "One."
My chair pulled back automatically. Her eyebrows arched high, amused. "Good reflex."
"Thanks. Years of practice."
Class ended with Ms. Hava asking for short submissions. Other groups argued about card colors and placebo; ours stayed quiet longer than necessary. As students drifted out, Mira didn't move. I tucked the marker and extra foil back into the drawer.
"Coffee?" she asked at last, as if there were no acceptable answer but yes.
"Always."
---
The cafeteria at noon buzzed louder than in the morning. We found a table by a small window facing the garden. Someone outside strummed a guitar, an allegedly sad song that sounded cheerful because the voice was too bright. I ordered an Americano; Mira, a latte—constant, like an equation with a favorite parameter.
"So here's the thing," she said, stirring a drink that didn't need stirring. "You noticed the light earlier?"
"I noticed."
"Good. If you'd denied it, I'd have written 'reality discount' in the notes."
"I'm not denying. I'm choosing my words."
"You're always choosing your words. Sometimes I wish you'd choose… silence."
I frowned. "Aren't I silent enough?"
"Silence isn't stopping. Silence is choosing not to push," she said, watching her cup. "You force yourself to stop."
"For public safety."
"In that case," she looked up, "let's practice a silence that doesn't force."
"Sounds like meditation advice."
"If it works, take it."
Ren appeared out of nowhere with toast and the smile of bad luck. "I just happened to—"
"Nothing just happens," I cut in.
"—see you two, so I thought, why not?" He sat without asking, looking between us. "Post-lab debrief?"
"Something like that," Mira said, friendly.
Ren winked at me—zero subtlety: you're alive, good. "So, Mira, what do you think of Shiron?"
Mira looked at me first, then at Ren. "Careful and smart. Rare combo. Annoying."
Ren laughed too loudly; two people stared. "Perfect! Official definition since freshman year." He stood, raising his toast in salute. "All right, I'm out. Not here to chaperone for free."
As he left, Mira shook her head, amused. "Your friend is like an NPC with side quests."
"At least he doesn't sell fake potions," I said.
"You're funny when you don't mean to be."
"I always mean to be."
"See? Choosing words again."
We finished our drinks with comfortable pauses. Sometimes we talked; sometimes we didn't. Mira has a skill for making silence non-demanding. Dangerous in its own way: you start forgetting why you were ever afraid.
Before parting, we queued to return cups. The line inched forward. About a meter from the end, someone up front dropped their change; coins rolled under shoes. Reflexively, I bent to pick one that spun our way. At the same instant, Mira bent down too.
Our fingertips brushed. Feather-light, like touching an insect's wing. No loud noise, no flashy spark. The ceiling light above the line just—click—once. Very soft. Maybe only I noticed. Maybe not.
Mira didn't snatch her hand away or linger. She took the coin, placed it on the tray, and whispered—enough for my ear, not for anyone else—"Two steps aren't enough if you're carrying me in your head."
I swallowed the reply trying to escape—a mix of protest and agreement. We walked toward the exit.
At the doorway, the breeze carried rice from the back kitchen and the scent of pending rain. Mira stopped half a step behind the threshold, like honoring an unwritten boundary. "Tomorrow," she said, as if it needed no contract.
"Tomorrow," I echoed.
She tipped her chin, surveying the washed-out day. "One more thing."
"What now?"
Mira fished out her small notebook. She opened a page edged with a margin line, scribbled fast, then tore it out carefully. She slid the scrap toward me without touching my palm. "Not a secret, a guess. Don't panic."
I glanced at it only after she'd walked two steps away—then opened it. Three lines:
ΔE ≈ f(Δr, Δt, Δμ)
Keep your distance, not your feelings.
See if it's true.
I stared a beat, then laughed—short, disbelieving. It wasn't real science; more like a poem disguised as a formula. Keep your distance, not your feelings. A line she might have written for me—or for herself.
I tucked it into my wallet—not because I needed it, but because some part of me likes holding a small proof that the world sometimes speaks in things you can keep.
We split at the quad. I headed for the library for moral attendance; Mira went to an elective she called "unimportant but fun." Halfway there, my phone buzzed: Ren, OPTIONAL LECTURE THIS AFTERNOON. YOU IN? I typed: I'll see. Pocketed it again.
At the library steps, I paused, looked up at the LED panel. "Thanks," I said dryly. The panel didn't blink. Professional.
I spent the rest of the afternoon on light tasks, jotting notes on priming and response. Nothing exploded. Even the copier behaved. Toward evening, the sky turned heavy gray—rain delayed like a promise kept too long.
On the way back, I crossed the short bridge between Buildings A and B. From there, you can see the field and—if you're lucky—miniature versions of the people who matter. Mira wasn't below. Good. Bad. …Balanced?
My hand slipped into my pocket, feeling the paper scrap. Keep distance, not feelings. Stupid and brilliant at once. High chance it's just a pretty line. Small chance it keeps someone safe from something. I don't know who, or what, yet.
The dorm welcomed me with the old elevator's familiar hum. In the hallway, Tatang mopped with fresh zeal; the floor shone like a lake. "Careful, slippery," he warned.
"I'm always careful," I said.
In my room, the fan greeted me with that familiar whumm. I set down my bag, lay back, and looked at the ceiling again. The crack in the corner was still there. Not bigger. Good. Some things don't change; the world needs that.
My phone buzzed. Not a message. Calendar: Tomorrow's class: B-3, 08:00. I added a note: Arrive early—or don't? My thumb hovered two seconds, then tapped Arrive early.
I closed my eyes. Tonight I wouldn't summon sleep like an enemy. I'd let it come like a friend who knows when to head home.
Right before I drifted off, a small thought knocked from the other side of the door: Distance isn't just meters. Distance can be time. Two steps mean nothing if time keeps walking us closer every second.
I chuckled at myself, feeling ridiculous. Then quiet. Then dark.
---