flew me to places I've never been
Inside Isla’s apartment, Everest is exactly where he planned to be—exactly where he should be. The coffee table is set at a precise forty-five degree angle from the couch, his notebook placed squarely in the centre of it. Next to the notebook, a coaster. On the coaster, a glass of water filled three-quarters of the way. He’s already adjusted the lighting to reduce glare, and the air smells faintly of lemon balm, as per Isla’s diffuser settings. All of it—orderly. Predictable. Which is why the sudden, hollow thud from above shatters him like glass dropped onto tile.
His grip tightens on his pen. He doesn’t move at first. Just blinks.
Thud. Thud.
The pattern is inconsistent. Inorganic. His spine stiffens, head slowly angling upward with the precision of a telescope tracking an unexpected object in the sky. One hand comes up to press flat over his sternum—grounding, habitual. The pen is now resting diagonally across his thigh, forgotten. He swallows. Scrape. Like something lifting. Dislodging.
His whole body flinches—shoulders ratcheting up and fingers twitching at his sides. It’s the kind of sensory disruption he can’t easily file away, and it short-circuits his internal equilibrium. He stims to compensate—pinching the hem of his shirt between thumb and forefinger in tiny, rhythmic pulls.
"This isn’t... wind," he says under his breath. The cadence of the steps is too deliberate. Not a tree branch. Not a storm. "Could be thermal expansion, maybe—shingle movement from heat loss." But even as he says it, his breath is tightening. He draws it in through his nose for four counts, holds it, releases—tries again. It doesn’t help.
Standing now, his movements are overly careful, as though the floor might give out if he steps too hard. He walks to the centre of the room, where he has the clearest view of the ceiling, tilting his head to listen again. The absence of Isla is suddenly very loud. He doesn’t want to call for her. That would imply concern. And he isn’t concerned. He’s… investigating.
He presses his palms against his thighs, flexing them once, twice. His brain is running simulations: squirrels, misaligned gutters, a hel hopping across shingles. But they don’t line up. The rhythm. The force. He takes a step back toward the wall, places both hands against it—another grounding trick—and closes his eyes, counting backward from ten. But even in that count, even as he breathes in sterile, lemon-scented air, Everest knows: something is off. Something is not in the plan. And until he figures out what it is, his entire system will remain on high alert.
His grip tightens on his pen. He doesn’t move at first. Just blinks.
Thud. Thud.
The pattern is inconsistent. Inorganic. His spine stiffens, head slowly angling upward with the precision of a telescope tracking an unexpected object in the sky. One hand comes up to press flat over his sternum—grounding, habitual. The pen is now resting diagonally across his thigh, forgotten. He swallows. Scrape. Like something lifting. Dislodging.
His whole body flinches—shoulders ratcheting up and fingers twitching at his sides. It’s the kind of sensory disruption he can’t easily file away, and it short-circuits his internal equilibrium. He stims to compensate—pinching the hem of his shirt between thumb and forefinger in tiny, rhythmic pulls.
"This isn’t... wind," he says under his breath. The cadence of the steps is too deliberate. Not a tree branch. Not a storm. "Could be thermal expansion, maybe—shingle movement from heat loss." But even as he says it, his breath is tightening. He draws it in through his nose for four counts, holds it, releases—tries again. It doesn’t help.
Standing now, his movements are overly careful, as though the floor might give out if he steps too hard. He walks to the centre of the room, where he has the clearest view of the ceiling, tilting his head to listen again. The absence of Isla is suddenly very loud. He doesn’t want to call for her. That would imply concern. And he isn’t concerned. He’s… investigating.
He presses his palms against his thighs, flexing them once, twice. His brain is running simulations: squirrels, misaligned gutters, a hel hopping across shingles. But they don’t line up. The rhythm. The force. He takes a step back toward the wall, places both hands against it—another grounding trick—and closes his eyes, counting backward from ten. But even in that count, even as he breathes in sterile, lemon-scented air, Everest knows: something is off. Something is not in the plan. And until he figures out what it is, his entire system will remain on high alert.
but now I'm laying on the cold hard ground
