Age 13
The days settled into shape faster than I expected.
Classes, meals, labs, the walk between them, everything rearranged itself into a schedule before I had to think about it.
That was the point. Predictability.
The only real difference was how people behaved. After a week back, most of the faces from last semester had already reverted to habits: the same late arrivals, the same whispered side-comments when something on the board went over their heads. People repeat faster than numbers do.
Morning
Math
Dr. Li liked to begin before the clock hit the hour. She didn't waste words; she drew a system of equations, explained how symmetry makes mistakes invisible, then erased half the board and rebuilt it from a different angle.
I liked watching the process more than solving it.
Paige sat beside me again, her handwriting sharper than before, more controlled. She asked one question about notation, got a ten-second answer, and went right back to work.
The rhythm between us didn't need adjustment. We understood silence better than conversation.
During break she leaned back and said, "You ever notice she checks the room every three minutes?"
I blinked. "Pattern recognition?"
Paige grinned. "Your superpower is finding patterns in chaos."
Her voice trailed off into the scrape of chairs as class resumed.
I pretended to focus on the board, but I timed it. Dr. Li did check the room every three minutes, almost to the second.
Midday
Lunch
The dining hall buzzed with new-semester energy. Trays clattered, silverware chimed, and someone's Walkman leaked tinny guitar through cheap headphones. I found a seat by the window; Paige joined me a minute later with a tray stacked higher than physics would approve of.
"You think they change the menu every decade or just rename things?" she asked, stabbing at something that might have been chicken.
"Renaming is cheaper," I said.
Across the aisle, two students argued about last night's football game. One repeated the same stat three times, louder each time, like volume made it truer.
Paige followed my glance. "There's your favorite subject again, repetition."
"Observation, not preference."
She smiled. "Sure."
We ate mostly in silence after that. It wasn't awkward; it was a pause that understood itself. Between bites she asked, "You still talking to Eugene?"
"Not really."
"He seems nice."
"He's loud," I said.
She laughed. "Some people need to hear themselves think out loud. You just do it quietly."
"I prefer efficiency."
"Of course you do."
When we finished, she wiped her hands on a napkin and looked at her watch. "Library, four p.m. Don't forget."
"I don't forget."
"I know."
She smirked and left first, blending into the crowd of students heading toward the courtyard.
Afternoon
CS Lab
The computer lab still smelled faintly of ozone and dust. Rows of beige towers hummed like a low mechanical choir. Professor Kim moved through the aisles with a clipboard, nodding whenever someone's code actually compiled.
Eugene was there again, sitting sideways in his chair, one leg hooked over the armrest. He caught my eye and gestured to his screen.
"Pointer error. You ever see one this bad?"
I scanned the code. "You're missing a semicolon."
He squinted. "That's it?"
"Usually is."
He laughed. "Man, genius doesn't mean immune to dumb."
When the lab ended, he packed up in a rush. "Coffee later? I'm not letting my brain melt alone."
"I don't drink coffee."
"Then water. You can watch me drink coffee."
I hesitated, then shook my head. "Maybe another time."
He shrugged like it didn't matter, but his smile said he'd try again.
That was the last time I saw him that week, and maybe for good. People pass through like data packets, brief bursts of signal, then silence.
Four p.m.
Library
The Perry-Castañeda Library smelled like paper, carpet, and the faint trace of ozone from the copy machines. Paige was already there, hair tucked behind one ear, surrounded by open books and a laptop that sounded one fan-breath away from failure.
She looked up when I approached. "Two minutes early. I'm impressed."
"I miscalculated the wind resistance," I said, sitting down.
She rolled her eyes. "Dr. Li assigned the new problem set already?"
I nodded. "Gradients in three-space."
"Good. I like challenges with visible edges."
We worked quietly for an hour. The fluorescent lights hummed above us, a mechanical metronome marking our concentration. Paige tapped her pencil against her notebook whenever her thoughts outran her equations; I timed the rhythm without meaning to, every eleven seconds, then nine, then ten again.
At one point she said, "You ever wonder why you keep counting everything?"
"I don't count. I measure."
"Same thing."
"Not exactly."
She tilted her head. "You know, that's why I like studying with you. You make silence sound deliberate."
"Isn't it?"
She smiled. "Fair."
When the equations were done, we sat back. The library windows caught the last of the afternoon sun, turning the glass orange-gold. Dust motes floated like lazy code fragments. For a moment, the world looked almost solved.
Then Paige said quietly, "It feels strange, doesn't it? Being normal again."
"It's a temporary illusion," I said.
"Maybe. But I'll take it."
We packed our things without hurry. She slipped a folded printout into her book, an article about the yogurt shop case still haunting the city. The headline was smaller now, but not gone.
I noticed, but didn't comment.
Evening
I walked the long way back to the dorm, tracing the perimeter of campus. The air had cooled, sharp enough to keep me awake. From the main walkway I could see the Tower glowing faintly, its light diffused by mist. Far off, music drifted from a fraternity house, out-of-tune guitar, laughter that rose and fell like static.
Through the library window I caught one last glimpse of Paige still inside, head bent over her book again, same steady focus.
Routine, restored.
Back in the dorm, Ben sat at the RA desk flipping through a physics magazine. "Back early," he said.
"Work finished," I replied.
"Wish that worked for everyone." He grinned. "They're out there pretending beer counts as research."
I half-smiled and kept walking.
Inside my room, the air felt still, dust settling, heater cycling off. I placed my notebook on the desk and wrote a single line:
Patterns exist to be measured. People don't repeat as cleanly.
I underlined it once, then added beneath it:
But sometimes, repetition is how they heal.
I closed the notebook and let the silence settle back into its proper shape. Outside, the Tower's light flickered once through the blinds, then steadied.
Order re-established.
(Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.)