Chapter 3 The Heart Echoes Louder When Shared

# Chapter 3: The Heart Echoes Louder When Shared

I woke to my phone buzzing with an unfamiliar number. Outside, dawn barely broke through morning mist.

"Ms. Reynolds? This is the SynSens Medical Center. We've detected anomalies in your neural patterns. Please come in for assessment today."

Bram texted minutes later: *Did you get the call too?*

An hour later, we sat side by side in sterile chairs, watching a neurologist study our readings. Dr. Fawkes, a stern woman with silver-streaked hair, tapped her tablet with growing concern.

"Your situation is... unusual," she finally said. "Most SynSens patients maintain distinct emotional patterns despite sensory overlap. But you two..." She showed us a graph with two colored lines that started separately but gradually converged. "You're experiencing what we call 'resonant emotional shifts.' Your emotional responses are beginning to mirror each other's."

"Is that dangerous?" Bram asked, his voice steady though I could feel his pulse quickening.

"It complicates the disconnection process." Dr. Fawkes removed her glasses. "If this convergence continues throughout the 72-hour window, you may develop permanent sensory links."

The implications hit me like a physical blow. "Permanent? You said this was temporary!"

"Normally, it is. But in rare cases where subjects form strong emotional bonds during connection—"

"We haven't formed any bond," I interrupted, ignoring Bram's sidelong glance. "We barely know each other."

Dr. Fawkes smiled thinly. "Your brain scans suggest otherwise. I recommend you both minimize emotional engagement until the connection period ends."

As we left the medical center, Bram's friend Marcus waited in the lobby, his security uniform matching Bram's.

"How's the freak show?" Marcus asked, oblivious to my glare.

"It's fine," Bram said tersely.

"Heard the boss wants you back tomorrow regardless. Said neural whatever isn't covered under sick leave policy."

I felt Bram's surge of anxiety as if it were my own. His job was physical—how could he work while feeling my sensations too?

"I should go," I mumbled, needing space to process Dr. Fawkes' warning.

Bram caught my wrist. "Wait. Maybe we should... I don't know, try to understand this better."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "I'll wait in the car," he said, backing away.

When we were alone, Bram's grip on my wrist loosened but didn't release. "Come with me," he said. "There's something I want to show you."

---

The training facility was empty on Sundays. Bram's security keycard granted us access to the vast indoor space with its climbing walls and practice ziplines.

"What are we doing here?" I asked, eyeing the equipment nervously.

"Experiment." He handed me a harness. "If we're stuck feeling what each other feels, maybe we should learn what that actually means."

I hesitated, but curiosity won out. With his guidance, I strapped into the harness and stood before the training zipline—a diagonal wire stretching across the room, not too high but high enough to make my stomach flutter.

"I do this every day," Bram said, standing close behind me. "Close your eyes."

I did, feeling his hands adjust my grip on the handle.

"Now, I want you to focus on what you feel. Not just physically."

With his voice in my ear and his steadying presence, I stepped off the platform. The initial drop made my heart lurch, then came the exhilarating glide. But beyond my own sensations, I felt something else—a calm confidence, a familiar joy. Bram's emotions, bleeding into mine.

When I opened my eyes at the end of the line, he was watching me with an intensity that made me blush.

"Your turn," I said after we returned to the platform.

He looked confused. "For what?"

"To feel what I feel."

---

That afternoon, Bram sat cross-legged on the floor of my flower shop after hours, surrounded by roses, lilies, and sprigs of lavender. I guided his hands, showing him how to strip thorns, how to cut stems at precise angles, how to arrange colors and textures.

"Close your eyes," I mimicked his earlier instruction.

He did, his large hands suddenly gentle as they followed mine through the motions of creating a bouquet. I could feel his initial awkwardness melt into curiosity, then something like wonder as he experienced the tactile pleasure I found in my work.

"It's like painting," he said, eyes still closed. "But with scents and textures."

I smiled, watching his fingers delicately position a rose. "That's exactly what it is."

As we worked together, the strangest thing happened. His laugh at a mistake became my laugh. My satisfaction at a perfect arrangement became his pride. The boundaries between us blurred in a way that should have terrified me but instead felt... right.

By evening, we were sitting on my apartment floor sharing takeout, surrounded by flower arrangements we'd made together.

"Do you think what the doctor said is true?" I asked. "About permanent links?"

Bram considered this, twirling a discarded rose stem between his fingers. "Would that be so terrible?"

The question hung in the air between us. Before I could answer, my phone chimed with a reminder about a client meeting tomorrow.

"I should sleep," I said, suddenly aware of how close we were sitting.

He nodded, rising to leave, but paused at the door. "Calla? Would it be alright if I... if we tried something?"

My heart rate increased—was it mine or his? Impossible to tell anymore.

"What?"

"Just... don't block me out tonight. When you sleep."

I didn't understand what he meant until later that night, when dreams came. I was eight years old again, in that silent hospital room after the accident that took my hearing for three months. In the dream, as in memory, I was terrified by the sudden silence, crying in the dark.

But unlike my memory, dream-me wasn't alone. Someone held my hand in the darkness, a presence so solid and reassuring that the silence became less frightening.

When I woke at dawn, tears dampened my pillow, but they weren't tears of fear. A melody played softly in my mind—my mother's favorite lullaby, the one she played when my hearing finally returned.

My phone lit up with a text from Bram: *Did you sleep okay?*

How could I explain that he'd somehow reached into my oldest fear and transformed it? That he'd found the melody I'd almost forgotten?

A second message appeared: *The doctor called. We have 6 hours left until disconnection.*

Six hours until we would become strangers again, separate beings in separate bodies. The thought brought an unexpected ache.

Another message from the medical center arrived minutes later: "System detecting heightened emotional fusion. Please note: one patient showing signs of attachment that may complicate disconnection. Report immediately for final assessment."

I stared at the message, heart pounding. One of us had developed feelings beyond the sensory link.

The question was—which one?