The first time it happened, the boy thought he was
imagining it.
He lay awake in bed, staring at the faint crack of light
beneath his door, counting his breaths the way he
sometimes did when sleep refused to come.
In.
Out.
Slow. Predictable.
Then his chest fluttered.
Not pain—something gentler. A soft, uneven rhythm,
like a second pulse echoing beneath his own. He held his breath.
Listened.
There it was again.
Thump.
Pause.
Thump.
It wasn't his heartbeat. His was faster, sharper. This one
was slower. Careful.
His hand rose to his chest without thought, palm
pressing flat as if he could feel through bone and skin
into something deeper.
The rhythm faded the moment he focused on it.
He lay awake for a long time after that, afraid to move,
afraid to breathe too loudly—as if he might disturb
someone sleeping nearby.
As the days passed, the sensations returned more
often.
Sometimes it was the pressure behind his eye, dull and
persistent. Sometimes it was a sudden wave of
emotion—fear, sadness, warmth—that made no sense
in the moment.
Once, while standing in line at school, his knees
weakened suddenly.
The girl beside him asked if he was okay. He nodded, though his chest felt tight, crowded.
At lunch, he barely ate. Food tasted wrong, heavy in his
mouth. He felt full after only a few bites, his stomach
uncomfortable in a way he couldn't explain.
That night, he drew.
Not faces this time.
Lines spiraled inward, forming enclosed shapes, layers
of darkness wrapped around something small and
bright at the center. When he finished, his hands were
shaking.
He didn't know what it was.
He only knew it felt right.
His mother's pregnancy began to show.
Her movements slowed. She rested more often, one
hand always cradling her stomach protectively. The boy
watched her constantly, hyper-aware of every breath
she took, every pause in her steps.
Sometimes, when she sat quietly, he felt calm.
Other times, when she winced or shifted
uncomfortably, his own body reacted—his head aching
sharply, his chest tightening with sudden anxiety.
"Are you feeling okay?" his mother asked once, noticing his pale face.
He nodded automatically.
"I'm fine."
It wasn't a lie.
It just wasn't the whole truth.
One afternoon, alone in his room, he pressed his ear
against his pillow and listened.
At first, there was nothing.
Then—faint but unmistakable—
a rhythm.
He pulled back sharply, heart racing.
"That's impossible," he whispered.
The rhythm stopped.
The room felt too quiet after.
That night, the dream returned.
Darkness. Warmth. Confinement.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
He felt small hands brush against him—tentative,
searching. The crying came again, soft and uncertain.
Instinctively, he reached out.
The crying eased.
A feeling washed over him—relief. Comfort. Safety.
When he woke, his cheeks were wet.
This time, he remembered crying.
In the bathroom mirror, he noticed something new.
One of his eyes looked slightly different.Not in color—no, it was subtler than that. The
reflection felt… deeper. As if something behind it was
watching through him.
He blinked hard.
The feeling remained.
He returned to his room and opened his notebook.
Without planning to, he wrote a single sentence
beneath an unfinished drawing:
I hear you.
The pressure behind his eye eased.
For the first time since the sensations began, the boy
slept peacefully