Dorian called between his finals.

He sounded so tired. I could hear it in his voice—like he was halfway between sleep and spreadsheets. I told him I missed him, and he said:

“As soon as I get on that plane, everything else goes silent.”

He makes the world feel small in the safest way.

I didn’t tell him about the dreams. About De’Angelo. About the strange symbols I’ve started sketching in my sleep.

He’s so close to the finish line. I want him to cross it without carrying my weight too.

And I guess... part of me is scared he’ll hear how weird it all sounds and look at me differently. Like I’m a glitch in the perfect summer we’ve both been counting down to.

So I’ll wait. Just until he’s here. Just until we’re sitting on my rooftop again, passing ginger ale back and forth and watching the skyline go soft.

Then maybe I’ll say:
“Something’s happening. And I think it started before I even knew what to call it.”