Chapter 5

Morning didn’t feel like morning.

It felt like light forcing itself through a wound.

Noah blinked awake slowly, one hand still curled in the sheets like he’d been gripping something all night. The room was cold. His body ached in strange places — not muscles, not bones. Just… him.

For a moment he didn’t move.

Just lay there, trying to remember if he’d dreamed.

He couldn’t.

But he felt the residue.

Like something had pressed against his spine while he slept.

He sat up too fast.

The room tilted.

His vision narrowed — then snapped back.

He blinked until the walls stopped breathing.

Then stood.

Routine.

That was the plan.

He peeled off yesterday’s clothes and stepped into the shower. Let it run too hot. Let the steam scrape his skin. Closed his eyes until the water sounded like static.

Got dressed in layers.

Grey shirt. Black sweater. Denim over that.

Protection.

He made coffee.

Didn’t drink it.

Tied his boots.

Untied them again just to feel his hands doing something.

By the time he left the dorm, it was nearly noon.

He hadn’t eaten.

He didn’t feel hungry.

He didn’t feel real.

The air outside was too clean.

Sunlight landed sharp across the buildings, casting harsh shadows that looked staged. Everything was too crisp. Too perfectly arranged. Like a set he hadn’t agreed to be part of.

Students passed him, talking too fast, laughing too loud.

None of them looked at him.

And that made it worse.

He walked in circles.

Didn’t go to class.

Didn’t respond to Emrys’s texts.

He wandered through the literature building, then the garden path, then back behind the sculpture hall.

Each corner he turned, his body half-expected to see one of them.

He didn’t.

But the not-seeing didn’t help.

It made him feel like they were letting him not see them.

By the time he sat on a rusted metal bench near the back quad, his breath had gone tight again.

The sky was too blue.

His reflection in the library windows looked too still.

He looked down at his hands.

There were faint crescent indents in his palms — half-moons where his own fingernails had dug in during the night.

He hadn’t remembered doing that.

But they were there.

Proof.

His body was remembering things he wouldn’t let his mind speak.

And still, he whispered it to himself. Under his breath. Like a prayer.

“I’m fine.”

The wind blew too gently, as if even it didn’t believe him.

**************

Noah didn’t remember what he ate on Wednesday.

He remembered standing in the dining hall.

He remembered picking up a tray, then putting it down again.

The noise was too sharp. Forks clinked against ceramic. A girl at the end of the line screamed laughter into someone’s shoulder.

He left before he could think too hard about it.

The next day, he woke up with a sore throat.

Not from sickness.

From grinding his teeth.

He walked across campus under a sky the color of dead wallpaper. Pale. Blank.

He passed Emrys on the quad.

Didn’t stop.

Emrys turned. Said something — Noah didn’t hear it.

Didn’t want to hear it.

Kept walking.

He stared at his shoes until they blurred.

That night, he couldn’t look in the mirror again.

He brushed his teeth without lifting his head. Rinsed his mouth with the lights off. Wiped condensation from the sink with a towel he didn't remember using.

His reflection — in the corner of his eye — moved a second too early.

He didn’t check.

Didn’t sleep much either.

Just lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it would crack open and whisper a truth he was too afraid to name.

On Friday, Emrys cornered him.

No warning. No build-up. Just a presence — appearing beside him in the hallway outside Studio 6, where the cement floor still held the cold from the night before and the windows streamed gold like confession.

“Noah,” they said, flat.

He turned.

Too late to pretend he hadn’t heard.

They stepped in front of him — not aggressive, just immovable.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Noah didn’t say anything.

They waited.

“Noah,” Emrys said again, slower. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend you didn’t hear.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” A breath. “You haven’t replied to a single text in three days.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You haven’t been in class.”

“I needed time.”

“From what?”

He hesitated. “Everything.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

“Noah—”

“What?” he snapped. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say something real,” Emrys said, louder now. “Because this isn’t you. And I’m not the only one who’s noticing.”

Noah’s jaw clenched. “Who else?”

“You know who.”

His eyes flicked toward the windows.

“You’re not with them, are you?” Emrys asked, quiet again. “Not really.”

Noah didn’t answer.

“That’s not a no.”

He folded his arms. “They haven’t touched me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Noah looked away.

The silence stretched too long.

Then he whispered, “I’m not like them.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I’m not like that.”

Emrys stared at him.

And then — softly, almost heartbreakingly — said:

“You’re not straight, Noah. You’ve just been hiding in the idea of it.”

Noah flinched.

“That’s not true.”

“Then look me in the eye and say it.”

He did.

And said nothing.

Emrys stepped closer.

“You think this is about sex, or being wanted. But it’s not. It’s about being seen.” Their voice dropped. “You’ve never let anyone see you like they do. That’s why it’s destroying you.”

“I don’t want them to see me.”

“Then why are you unraveling?”

That stopped him.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

He hated the way his throat felt tight. The way the words wouldn’t come. The way Emrys’s voice still sounded like a place he could rest if he just let himself.

But rest wasn’t safe anymore.

Nothing was.

He backed away.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

His voice cracked.

And Emrys — after a long beat — took a slow step back. Like they understood that if they pushed now, he’d shatter in their hands.

They didn’t speak again.

Just walked away, leaving Noah alone in the hallway.

Breathing too fast.

Heart in his throat.

Hands shaking like they had nowhere left to hide.

Noah didn’t go to his next class.

He took the long way around the campus gardens instead — where gravel paths curled under tangled branches and the air smelled faintly like damp bark.

The bench near the sculpture wing was empty.

He sat.

Back hunched. Shoulders high. Breathing shallow like he was bracing for a punch that had already landed.

Leaves rustled.

Someone approached.

He didn’t look up until she sat beside him.

A woman — student, probably — dressed too well for the weather, with long dark hair and boots that didn’t make a sound.

She crossed her legs slowly.

Looked at him sideways.

“Hello, Noah.”

He tensed.

He didn’t know her.

She smiled — faint, like it was private.

“Do I know you?”

“Not yet,” she said. “But I know you.”

His heartbeat spiked.

Her gaze stayed soft. Neutral. Like this was nothing more than coincidence.

“Lina,” she said, offering no hand. “Third year. Studio elective. Close to… people you’ve been looking at.”

“I haven’t been—”

“You have,” she said. “But it’s okay. They’re easy to look at. The trick is getting them to stop looking back.”

He stared at her.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m not going to accuse you of anything.”

“Then what do you want?”

She tilted her head.

“Curiosity,” she said. “And maybe to see how far in you already are.”

Noah stood.

Too fast.

She didn’t move.

“They’ve done this before,” she said calmly. “Elián with his warmth. Adrian with his silence. It’s a pattern. A ritual. A... test.”

He tried to walk away.

“I knew Julien,” she added.

That stopped him.

He turned halfway.

“You don’t know who that is yet,” she said. “But I think you will.”

A pause.

Then softer:

“He thought he was different too.”

Noah’s voice came out colder than he meant. “Are you trying to scare me?”

She smiled. This time, it was genuine.

“No,” she said. “If I wanted to scare you, I’d tell you what happened to him.”

And then she stood.

Brushed her coat sleeve.

Added one last thing as she walked away:

“You’re not the first. Just don’t beg to be the last.”

She disappeared around the garden path, heels silent, hair catching light like smoke.

Noah sat back down.

And wondered how long she’d been watching him before she decided to speak.

**************

Noah didn’t mean to look.

He hadn’t even meant to be on the second floor of the art building.

He’d gone in to find silence. That’s all. Just a hallway without noise. Without Lina. Without Emrys. Without shadows.

The corridor was quiet — all whitewashed brick and wide windows that faced the southern quad. Afternoon light poured in like paint spilled too thick on canvas.

He slowed as he passed the largest window — the long glass that stretched wall to wall.

Below, the world moved as usual.

Students crossing between classes.

Backpacks slung over one shoulder. Headphones. Paper cups of coffee. Someone laughing too loudly.

And then—

he saw them.

The twins.

Adrian. Elián.

Walking side by side through the courtyard below.

Noah stopped walking.

His heart skipped.

They weren’t talking.

Weren’t touching.

But they moved like they were sewn together beneath their coats — a rhythm so perfect it couldn’t have been practiced. They were mirror images that had never needed a mirror.

Elián in a soft white coat, collar loose. Adrian in charcoal black, sleeves long. One glancing up at trees. The other at the path. One curved slightly inward — the other adjusting, as if to match the orbit.

It was beautiful.

And horrifying.

Noah leaned toward the window, barely aware he was doing it.

Something about their movements... it wasn't human. Not inhuman — just not built for anyone else’s tempo.

He swallowed.

Told himself:

They're just walking.

You're projecting.

You’re tired.

Then—

Elián lifted his hand. Ran his fingers through his curls.

And at the exact same second, Adrian lifted his hand to his collar. Not reacting. Not watching.

Just in time.

No delay.

No awareness.

A dance with no cue.

Noah felt a chill tickle his arms — too fast to be from the window draft. His sweater suddenly felt too tight at the neck.

The twins paused near the center of the quad.

No dialogue. No eye contact.

But Elián’s head turned.

Not toward Adrian.

Toward the building.

Up.

Right. At. Him.

Noah stepped back.

But not before he saw it:

The reflection.

In the glass of the long window, slightly warped by age and sun and years of cleaning fluid streaks —

—Elián’s mirrored face smiled first.

Not his real face.

Not his body below.

The reflection.

A full second before the actual Elián even blinked.

Then Adrian’s mirrored body — the reflection — turned to look up as well.

Noah’s breath caught.

But Adrian — the real Adrian — never turned.

He just stood there.

Still.

Only the reflection moved.

Looking straight into Noah’s eyes.

Smiling — faintly, unknowably.

The world dropped out beneath his feet.

Noah blinked hard.

Once.

Twice.

They were gone.

The twins.

The reflections.

Just the courtyard below now, half-empty. Some leaves twisting in the wind. A paper coffee cup rolling across the concrete.

And the window.

And in the window —

his own reflection.

Faint.

Off.

He looked at himself.

And for one brief, breathless second — it looked like he wasn’t alone.

Like the glass was crowded.

Then he turned away.

Fast.

Walked back down the corridor without breathing properly until he reached the end.

He didn’t look back.

**************

The dorm room was still.

Too still.

Noah didn’t bother turning the lights on. The only illumination came from the desk lamp — a small circle of yellow-white light in the darkness, just enough to see the page in front of him.

His journal sat open.

Blank.

He sat with the pen in hand for nearly ten minutes before he touched paper.

The silence in the room wasn't peace. It was waiting. Breathing with him. Judging.

He wrote, finally — deliberately — at the top of the page:

    Things I Know Are True.

He paused.

Then began the list.

My name is Noah. 

I’m twenty years old. 

I’m a second-year student. 

I drink black coffee. 

I like winter more than summer. 

I’m straight.

His hand hesitated.

He looked at the word.

Straight.

He tapped the pen against the desk.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Then, almost angrily, he wrote:

I’m straight. 

I’m straight. 

I’m straight. 

I’m straight. 

I’m—

He scratched the last one out before he finished it.

Tore a hole in the paper.

His jaw clenched.

He sat back in the chair and exhaled hard through his nose.

Tried again.

Turned the page.

New list.

   Things I Am Not.

Confused. 

Obsessed.

Weak.

Like them.

His fingers tightened around the pen. His knuckles went white.

I’m not like them.

I’m not like Emrys. 

I’m not like Julien.

I’m not like Elián.

I’m not like Adrian.

I’m not—

He scratched them all out.

Every line.

Ink piled like black snow across the paper.

He sat still for a moment.

Breathing shallow.

Then flipped the page again.

Blank. Quiet. Neutral.

His handwriting was sloppier now.

   Things They Haven’t Done.

They haven’t touched me.

They haven’t kissed me.

They haven’t said my name again.

They haven’t looked at me today.

They haven’t stopped.

His hand paused over that last one.

He added:

They don’t have to.

That stopped him.

Something twisted in his chest. Something sharp. Unpleasant. Familiar.

He leaned forward and put his forehead against the desk.

The wood was cool.

The heat in the room was too high, but he didn’t move.

When he sat up again, his hands were trembling.

He wrote more.

Not even as a list now. Just—writing. Anything to make the air less thick.

I don’t think they want me. I think they want to see if I’ll come to them.

I think that’s worse.

I think I do want to go to them.

I don’t want to want that.

I didn’t ask for this.

I didn’t ask to be seen.

I didn’t ask to be wanted.

I didn’t ask—

I didn’t—

He dropped the pen.

Sat back.

Covered his face with both hands.

Everything inside him was electric. Burning. Wrong.

He felt like his thoughts were no longer thoughts — just noise with grammar.

He picked up the pen again.

Wrote, slowly, shaking:

I think I want to be seen.

I think that’s the problem.

Then below that:

I think I want to be touched.

But not like a person.

Like a secret.

He froze.

That sentence made something in him ache.

And for the first time in weeks, he felt the prick of actual tears.

Not enough to fall.

Just enough to hurt.

He didn’t erase it.

He closed the journal.

Not slowly. Not carefully. Just—done.

Pressed his palms flat to the cover.

Held it like something might crawl out of it if he let go.

He sat there for a long time.

In the silence.

The room felt smaller.

Like the walls had pulled closer while he wasn’t looking.

His reflection in the darkened window watched him.

And this time, he didn’t look away.