Faster than thought, fingers danced across keys once the room emptied, typing words meant for Lucas. Then stillness settled - just screen glow slicing the dark.
Me: "Can we talk? In person?"
Lucas: "Dr. Chen said no contact outside sessions."
Me: "I know. But this can't wait. Please."
Lucas: "My studio. 7 PM."
A thin line of cold light crept through next to where the clock flickered. It wasn't seven just then. Quiet gripped me hard, planted in place. That time leaned down heavy, fragile as a pane about to crack. Over and over came the phrases - same ones once more. Packed together, sour and stuck behind my teeth.
A sound emerged, dragging itself from between his palms. Less melody, more fracture held together by breath. It grew without asking, shaped by the weight of stillness. All attention leaned into its hum before eyes had time to shift. Empty air thickened as that single tone pushed forward.
"This time it's different," I told him.
