Liam drove until the highway blurred into one long ribbon of color. The dashboard clock blinked 3 a.m., a quiet pulse that matched the rhythm in his temples. The radio was off, yet the sound followed him anyway low, vibrating, as if the car itself had learned to hum.
He pulled over at a gas station on the edge of town, the kind that never really closed but never felt open either. The fluorescent lights painted everything in a sickly white. He stepped out, breathing air that tasted of metal and wet asphalt.
In the rearview mirror he hardly recognized himself. His hair stuck up in uneven tufts; the dark circles beneath his eyes looked like bruises. The golden-boy reflection he was used to seeing had vanished, replaced by someone.
He splashed water on his face at the sink inside. The faucet gurgled, then steadied. For a moment the hum vanished, swallowed by the rush of water. But when he shut the tap, it returned faint, persistent. He pressed his hands against the counter, willing it to stop.
"You're just tired," he whispered. "That's all."
The mirror gave no answer.
He drove again, this time back toward campus. Dawn approached, a thin gray line along the horizon. The empty baseball field came into view like a ghost of his former life. He parked beside the bleachers, engine still running, headlights cutting across the grass.
For weeks he had avoided this place. But something about the early light drew him in, maybe guilt, maybe habit. He walked toward the pitcher's mound, each step heavy with memories: cheering crowds, camera flashes, Emily's laughter from the stands.
At the center of the field he stopped. The silence was so complete that he could hear his own breath. Then just barely the hum again, underneath the quiet, like a memory that refused to die.
He closed his eyes. It's in your head, Liam. It's just noise.
But another voice inside him answered: No, it's her.
He opened his eyes and glanced toward the dugout. Nothing there but shadows. Still, he felt watched.
He knelt down, pressing his fingers into the dirt. It was damp, cool, grounding. He needed that. For a long time he stayed there, breathing slowly, until the pounding in his chest began to ease.
A flicker of light caught his eye. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small vial the last one. Even sealed, it shimmered faintly, a pulse trapped in glass. He hated it and needed it at the same time.
The coach had promised it would heal faster, sharpen focus, make every throw perfect. The first few doses had done exactly that. Then came the headaches, the sleepless nights, the humming. By the time Emily found out, he'd already been too deep to stop.
He remembered her face that night shock, disappointment, fear. She'd said, "You don't need this, Liam." He'd believed her for a heartbeat. Then panic took over. Everything after that was noise, motion, blood, silence.
He dropped the vial into the dirt and stepped back. For a second he imagined smashing it, ending everything. But the glow pulled at him. He picked it up again, trembling
A car door slammed somewhere behind him. Liam spun around.
"Who's there?"
No answer. Just wind.
He scanned the parking lot. A figure stood at the far edge, too far to recognize, watching. He felt a spike of panic Noah? Ryan? The police?
"Leave me alone!" he shouted, but the echo only came back to him.
When he blinked, the figure was gone.
He rubbed his eyes until colors flashed. Maybe no one had been there at all. Maybe exhaustion was rewriting the world around him.
He sank onto the bench and stared at the vial in his hand. The humming matched the pulse in his wrist. For a moment he pressed the glass against his ear. The sound deepened, resonant, almost human. It whispered like a voice just beyond understanding.
He threw the vial into the dugout and clamped his hands over his ears.
"Stop it! Just stop!"
The hum faded, but so did everything else his balance, his breath. He slumped forward, dizzy, heart racing. The world tilted sideways.
When he came to, light had changed. The sun had climbed above the bleachers, painting the field in gold. He blinked, groggy, unsure how long he'd been out. His phone buzzed beside him: five missed calls, three from Noah, two from Coach. He didn't open them.
He staggered to the dugout. The vial lay unbroken, half-buried in dirt. He picked it up again, wiped it clean, and slipped it into his pocket.
He told himself it was just to get rid of later. But he knew that wasn't true.
As he left the field, a voice called from behind. "You alright, man?"
Liam turned. Ryan stood by the gate, hands in his jacket pockets. He looked casual, but his eyes were sharp.
"Didn't think anyone else came out here this early," Ryan said.
"Couldn't sleep," Liam replied, forcing a smile. "Needed air."
Ryan nodded. "Heard that. Coach is worried. You vanished."
"I'm fine."
Ryan tilted his head slightly. "You sure? You look… off."
Liam laughed weakly. "Yeah, well, long week."
Ryan studied him a second longer, then shrugged. "Alright. Just be careful, yeah? People are talking."
"About what?"
Ryan hesitated. "Emily. The cops. You know how rumors start."
The name hit Liam like a thrown pitch to the ribs. He masked the flinch by adjusting his jacket. "Yeah. Rumors."
Ryan's gaze drifted toward Liam's pocket, where the faint outline of the vial bulged against the fabric. For a heartbeat, Liam thought he'd ask about it, but Ryan only said, "See you at practice," and walked away.
Liam watched him go, unease gnawing at his stomach.
That night, back in his apartment, Liam tried to rest. The room was dark, the curtains drawn, the hum a ghost at the edge of hearing. He pressed a pillow over his head. Still there. He opened his eyes, and in the faint streetlight through the window he saw dust swirling above the desk,small particles moving to an invisible rhythm.
He sat up and whispered to the dark, "I'm losing it."
From somewhere beneath the floor, the hum deepened, low and steady, like the start of a heartbeat.
Liam held his breath until his lungs ached.
When he finally exhaled, the sound stopped.
But in the silence that followed, he heard another noise the click of a phone camera, faint, distant. He froze, staring at the window.
Someone had been there.