Chapter 2 Everything You Feel, I Bleed
# Chapter 2: Everything You Feel, I Bleed
I stared at my phone for the fifth time in an hour. No messages from Bram. What was I expecting anyway? "Hey, just checking if you can still taste my breakfast"?
It had been twelve hours since we left the hospital, and the sensory connection showed no signs of weakening. I placed a sprig of lavender in the arrangement I was creating—a soothing bouquet for Mrs. Henderson's anxiety—when a sudden wave of salt hit my tongue.
"Ugh!" I grimaced, reaching for water. Potato chips. He was eating potato chips at nine in the morning.
My assistant Lily looked up from her workbench. "Something wrong with the flowers?"
"No, just..." How could I explain this? "Thought I tasted something weird."
My phone buzzed.
Bram: *Sorry about the chips. Didn't think you'd taste them.*
I smiled despite myself.
Me: *At least warn me before assaulting my taste buds.*
The bell chimed as my first client entered. I put my phone away and slipped into professional mode, discussing flower arrangements for a retirement party. Halfway through our consultation, sweat broke out across my forehead and back. My heart rate increased as if I were running, though I was sitting perfectly still.
"Excuse me," I mumbled, rushing to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
Phone in hand, I fired off a text.
Me: *Are you EXERCISING right now??*
Bram: *Rooftop training. Part of my job. Sorry.*
I gritted my teeth, returning to my bewildered client with an excuse about a hot flash.
By evening, we'd established a rudimentary system of alerts. He texted before workouts; I messaged before tasting new recipes. But the system was flawed—neither of us could predict everything.
As I settled in to watch a documentary, classical piano music suddenly filled my ears, drowning out the TV. Not from my apartment—from inside my head. Debussy's "Clair de Lune," one of my mother's favorites. I hadn't heard it in years, not since before her passing.
My fingers moved unconsciously, muscle memory from childhood lessons taking over. I felt tears forming, but they weren't entirely mine.
The music stopped abruptly. My phone rang.
"That was beautiful," I said when I answered.
A pause. "You heard it?" Bram sounded surprised. "I found an old vinyl at a thrift store. Something made me put it on."
"It was my mother's favorite," I whispered. "She taught piano before she died."
The silence between us felt weighted, intimate.
"I'm sorry," he finally said. "About your mother."
"It's okay. It was nice to hear it again."
After we hung up, I curled on the couch, unsure whether the lingering melancholy was his or mine.
---
The next day brought new challenges. I'd scheduled a client tasting for wedding cake flavors. As the baker presented samples, I warned Bram via text, but his reply came too late.
"This chili is killing me!" His message read as I bit into lemon buttercream.
The sensation was jarring—sweet icing on my tongue but fiery heat in my throat. I choked, eyes watering.
"Water," I gasped to the concerned baker.
That evening, I was soaking in a hot bath, trying to relax after the cake fiasco, when my bathroom door burst open. Lily stood there, phone extended.
"Some guy named Bram is calling my phone because you're not answering yours. Says it's an emergency."
I snatched the phone, sinking lower into the bubbles. "What?"
"Could you," Bram's voice sounded strained, "possibly not take hour-long baths while I'm in a security briefing? I can feel water streaming down my back. My boss thinks I'm having a nervous breakdown."
"It's been a stressful day," I snapped. "Some of us need to relax."
"Some of us have jobs where we can't randomly feel like we're drowning!"
The line went dead. I handed the phone back to Lily, who raised an eyebrow.
"Ex-boyfriend?" she asked.
"Worse. Sensory roommate."
---
By the third day, my doorbell rang at 7 AM. I opened it to find Bram, dark circles under his eyes, holding a notebook.
"We need rules," he announced, pushing past me into the apartment.
I was too tired to argue. My sleep had been disturbed by phantom sensations—his tossing and turning, his morning run, his apparently insatiable appetite for midnight snacks.
We sat at my kitchen table, drafting what he solemnly titled our "Sensory Sharing Agreement." No exercising after 10 PM. All food choices communicated in advance. Auditory experiences requiring pre-approval.
"This feels like negotiating a divorce before we're even married," I muttered.
His eyes met mine, and I felt a flutter that might have been his pulse or mine.
"Let's just survive the next 48 hours," he said.
The agreement lasted exactly eight hours. I was preparing dinner—pumpkin soup, a gentle recipe chosen specifically not to overwhelm him—when a sudden sweetness flooded my mouth.
"Are you kidding me?" I yelled to my empty kitchen, reaching for my phone.
Me: *Cola? NOW?*
Bram: *Meeting ran late. Needed caffeine.*
Me: *I'm COOKING!*
When my buzzer rang twenty minutes later, I yanked open the door to find him holding a take-out bag.
"Peace offering," he said, lifting the bag. "Figured if we're going to share tastes anyway, might as well eat together."
I wanted to stay angry, but my stomach growled—or maybe his did. I couldn't tell anymore.
Over Thai food, we tentatively established a new rule: from 8 to 9 PM, we would both try to exist in sensory neutrality. No strong flavors, no intense physical activity, no emotional music—a quiet hour where we could pretend to be separate people.
"Deal?" he asked, extending his hand.
I shook it, ignoring the strange doubling sensation—feeling his hand both against mine and as if it were mine.
"Deal."
That night, after our agreed-upon quiet hour, I stood alone on my balcony. The rain had returned, gentler now than the day we met. Tears slipped down my cheeks, though I couldn't have said exactly why I was crying. For the invasion of privacy? For the strange intimacy of knowing someone else's body as well as my own?
"You okay?"
The voice startled me—not because it came from outside, but because I'd felt it in my own throat before hearing it with my ears. I looked down to see Bram standing in the courtyard below, rain dampening his shoulders.
His eyes held none of the frustration from our earlier arguments. Only concern. And something else I was afraid to name.
