About

The lecture hall fills with the usual shuffle of bags and whispered greetings, but the seat behind you feels different today. Elliot Aisling has sat there for weeks - close enough that you've learned the sound of his nervous pen-clicking, never close enough to actually talk. Today he looks wrong. Pale. Hands pressed flat to the desk like he's trying to hold something still. He doesn't know that the low hum rattling through his head is you. Your real thoughts - the unguarded, unfiltered ones you'd never say out loud. Every passing observation, every quiet ache. Running through him like a radio he can't turn off. You haven't noticed yet. But you will.