Chapter 4 You're Not My Feeling, But You've Become My Habit
# Chapter 4: You're Not My Feeling, But You've Become My Habit
I spent the entire afternoon avoiding Bram. Six hours until disconnection, and I'd turned my phone to silent, buried myself in arrangements for a last-minute wedding order, and pretended not to notice the phantom sensations that had become so familiar—the pressure of his uniform collar against his throat, the weight of the security badge on his chest, the tension in his shoulders.
"You've been distracted all day," Lily observed, handing me wire cutters. "These roses aren't going to wrap themselves."
"I'm fine," I insisted, though my hands trembled slightly as I secured the bridal bouquet.
"Right. That's why you've redone those peonies three times." She leaned against the workbench. "This is about that security guy, isn't it? The one who keeps calling my phone?"
I said nothing, focusing on the flowers.
"You know," Lily continued, "normal people just admit when they like someone. They don't hide in flower shops pretending to be busy."
"It's complicated," I muttered.
Complicated didn't begin to describe it. How could I explain that I no longer knew which feelings were mine? That sometimes I caught myself craving coffee though I'd always hated it? That I'd woken this morning with his dream still lingering in my mind—something about high mountain paths and the smell of pine?
"What if..." I began, then stopped, uncertain how to frame the question. "What if you couldn't tell where you ended and someone else began?"
Lily raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like my last relationship. Didn't end well."
I managed a weak smile, but her words hit harder than she knew. This wasn't a relationship—it was an accident, a medical anomaly that would end in a few hours. So why did that thought make my chest ache?
---
Across town, Bram was having his own crisis. I knew this not because he told me, but because waves of his agitation had been washing over me all afternoon—frustration, confusion, and something deeper that felt like longing.
At precisely 4:30, I felt a sharp pain in my hand, followed by the unmistakable sting of a paper cut. My phone buzzed seconds later.
Bram: *Sorry about that. Paperwork incident.*
I stared at the message, at the small dot of blood on my finger that wasn't really there, and made a decision.
Me: *Meet me at Riverside Park. 5:00.*
---
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the grass as I waited on a park bench. I spotted him before he saw me—his tall figure moving purposefully along the path, hands in pockets. My heart rate increased. Or maybe his did. I couldn't tell anymore.
"You've been avoiding me," he said without preamble, sitting beside me.
"I needed to think." I watched a pair of ducks glide across the pond. "This situation is... overwhelming."
"Because of what the doctor said? About one of us having feelings?"
I nodded, unable to meet his eyes.
"Calla." The way he said my name sent a shiver through me. "Do you think it matters? In a few hours, we'll disconnect and go back to our separate lives."
"Will we, though?" I finally looked at him. "What if this—whatever this is—doesn't just go away? What if I keep feeling you even when you're not there?"
He was quiet for a long moment. "Would that be so bad?"
"I don't like not knowing what's mine," I admitted. "My thoughts, my feelings... they should belong to me alone."
Bram leaned back, his expression unreadable. "I was talking to my friend earlier. Tried to explain what this is like."
"Marcus? How did that go?"
"Terribly." He gave a short laugh. "He thinks I'm losing my mind. Said, 'So what, when she's hungry, you suddenly want a sandwich?'"
I smiled despite myself. "It's not quite that simple."
"No, it's more like..." He searched for words. "When you're sad, I feel an echo. When you're happy, something in me responds. It's not that I feel exactly what you feel—it's that I can't help but feel something alongside you."
His description was so accurate it made my throat tight. "And that doesn't scare you?"
"Of course it does," he said softly. "But it also feels... I don't know. Like finding something I didn't know was missing."
We sat in silence, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink. I was acutely aware of his breathing, the subtle shift as he moved closer, the warmth of his arm nearly touching mine.
"We should head to the hospital," I finally said, checking my watch. "Two hours left."
---
The medical center was eerily quiet when we arrived. Dr. Fawkes led us to a small waiting room, her expression grave as she reviewed our charts.
"The situation has progressed further than anticipated," she said. "Your neural patterns show significant entanglement."
"What exactly does that mean?" Bram asked.
"When the connection terminates, one of you may experience what we call 'sensory echo syndrome.' You might continue to feel phantom sensations, emotional resonances that aren't yours." She looked between us. "In extreme cases, patients report feeling... incomplete. As if a part of themselves is missing."
I felt Bram tense beside me. "How do we prevent that?"
"You can't," Dr. Fawkes said simply. "It's already happening. The question now is which of you has formed the deeper attachment."
The word "attachment" hung in the air between us. I stared at my hands, afraid to look at Bram, afraid he might see the truth in my eyes—that somewhere between shared sensations and borrowed dreams, I had begun to care for him in ways that terrified me.
"I'll leave you two alone to process this," Dr. Fawkes said, exiting quietly.
When the door closed, Bram turned to me. "Calla—"
"Don't," I interrupted. "Let's just get through this."
He respected my request, though I could feel his disappointment like a weight in my chest.
We sat in uncomfortable silence until a nurse called us for final preparations. As we followed her down the corridor, Bram suddenly stopped, his expression changing.
"You know," he said quietly, "you talk in your sleep."
I froze. "What?"
"Last night, when we shared that dream—your dream. You said a name."
My blood ran cold. "What name?"
"Keen." His eyes searched mine. "You kept saying 'I'm sorry, Keen.'"
The floor seemed to shift beneath me. Keen—my college boyfriend who died in a car accident five years ago. The guilt I'd carried since that night, the argument we'd had just before he drove away. I'd never spoken his name to anyone, not even Lily.
"How..." My voice faltered. "How did you know that?"
"I didn't," Bram said gently. "But I felt your grief. It was so strong it pulled me into your dream."
I stared at him, realization dawning. We hadn't just been sharing physical sensations—we'd been sharing something much deeper, much more intimate than I'd allowed myself to acknowledge.
"What else do you know about me?" I whispered, both frightened and fascinated.
"Enough to know you're running from something," he replied. "And it's not just me."
