Chapter 6 A Little More Pain, But I Don't Want to Let Go

# Chapter 6: A Little More Pain, But I Don't Want to Let Go

The hospital corridor seemed longer than I remembered, each step bringing us closer to the moment of separation. Bram walked beside me, our hands occasionally brushing—each contact sending dual sensations through our shared neural pathway.

"Ms. Reynolds, Mr. Mathis." Dr. Fawkes greeted us with a tight smile. "I'm glad you responded to our alert. Your readings have been... concerning."

She led us to a small room labeled "Disconnection Chamber." Inside, a modified version of the SynSens machine hummed quietly, two reclined chairs positioned beneath its scanning arm.

"The procedure is straightforward," she explained, gesturing for us to sit. "You'll each press this button simultaneously." She indicated a small red button on each armrest. "The system will initiate a controlled neural decoupling. It may cause momentary discomfort—headache, nausea, possibly disorientation."

I settled into the chair, watching as nurses attached monitoring pads to Bram's temples, then mine.

"Once disconnected," Dr. Fawkes continued, "we'll monitor you for approximately one hour to ensure no sensory echoes remain. Then you're free to resume your normal lives."

Normal lives. The phrase struck me as absurd. How could anything be normal after experiencing another person's existence from within?

"What if we don't want to disconnect?" Bram asked suddenly.

Dr. Fawkes paused. "Excuse me?"

"Theoretically," he clarified, meeting my gaze across the gap between our chairs. "What happens if we choose to stay connected?"

The doctor removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Mr. Mathis, perhaps I haven't been clear. This isn't a choice. Your neural pathways have become dangerously entangled. Without proper separation, you risk permanent psychological damage."

"What kind of damage?" I asked.

"Identity dissolution. Inability to distinguish your emotions from his. Phantom sensations that never fade." She sighed. "In the most severe cases, patients develop a form of dependency. They can't function independently."

A nurse approached with a clipboard. "We need your consent signatures before proceeding."

I took the pen, hesitating over the form. Three days ago, I would have signed immediately, desperate to reclaim my privacy, my separate self. Now...

"Five minutes," I said, setting the clipboard aside. "Can we have five minutes alone before we decide?"

Dr. Fawkes frowned but nodded. "Five minutes. No more."

When the medical staff filed out, leaving us alone in the sterile room, Bram reached across the gap between our chairs. I took his hand, feeling the now-familiar doubling of sensation—my skin against his, his skin against mine.

"Are you scared?" he asked softly.

"Terrified," I admitted. "But not of staying connected."

He smiled, understanding immediately. "You're afraid of disconnecting."

I nodded, unable to articulate the hollow feeling that had been growing since we received the alert. The thought of returning to my solitary existence—where no one could feel my joy or pain, where my memories remained locked inside my head—suddenly seemed unbearably lonely.

"What if..." I began, struggling to put my fear into words. "What if I can't remember how your coffee tastes? Or how it feels when you laugh? What if I forget how to find you?"

"I'll be right here," he promised. "Connection or no connection."

"It won't be the same." My voice cracked. "You won't be... inside anymore."

Bram's eyes held mine, his emotions flowing through our link—determination, fear, and something deeper that made my heart race.

"Do you remember what you told me?" he asked. "About why you became a florist?"

I smiled despite myself. "I never told you that."

"No, but I felt it. When you were working with the roses, showing me how to arrange them. You do it because flowers speak without words. Because they can express what people can't say aloud."

The accuracy of his insight stunned me. Even Lily, who had worked with me for years, didn't know that.

"That's what this is," he continued. "A language without words. I know you're afraid of losing that."

A knock at the door interrupted us. Dr. Fawkes peered in. "Your time is up. Have you made your decision?"

I looked at the disconnection button, then at Bram. In three days, he had become more familiar to me than people I'd known for years. He knew about Keen, about my mother's music, about nightmares I'd never shared with anyone. He'd experienced my passion for flowers, my fear of thunder, my quiet joy in morning sunlight.

And I knew him—his dedication to his job, his love of mountain trails, his habit of humming when concentrating. I'd felt his loneliness and his strength, his doubts and his courage.

"I can't," I whispered, pulling my hand away from the button.

Dr. Fawkes entered fully, her expression severe. "Ms. Reynolds, Mr. Mathis, I must insist. The longer you remain connected, the more difficult separation becomes."

"What if we don't want to separate?" Bram challenged, sitting straighter.

"This isn't about want," she replied. "It's about your neurological health."

A new voice joined the conversation—Marcus, pushing past a nurse in the doorway. "Bram, man, what are you doing? The guys said you were having some kind of procedure."

"Marcus," Bram acknowledged him without taking his eyes off me. "Not a good time."

"It's the perfect time," Dr. Fawkes interjected. "Perhaps your friend can help you see reason."

Marcus looked between us, confusion evident. "What's going on?"

"They want us to disconnect," I explained. "To stop feeling each other."

"Isn't that what you wanted?" he asked Bram. "You've been complaining about it for days."

Bram finally looked away from me, meeting his friend's gaze. "Things changed."

"Changed how?"

"I found something I didn't know I was missing."

The simple declaration hung in the air. Dr. Fawkes sighed heavily, checking her watch. "We're approaching the 72-hour mark. If you won't initiate disconnection voluntarily, the system will begin automatic separation protocols."

As if on cue, the SynSens machine beeped loudly, its display flashing with countdown numbers.

"Last chance," the doctor warned. "Controlled disconnection is far less traumatic than forced separation."

I looked at Bram, feeling his resolve through our link. He smiled slightly, then reached for my hand instead of the button.

"You're making a mistake," Dr. Fawkes said, but her voice seemed distant compared to the connection flowing between Bram and me.

The countdown reached zero. The machine hummed louder, its scanning arm passing over our heads. I braced for pain, for the tearing sensation of being forcibly separated from him.

Nothing happened.

The machine beeped again, its display flashing: "ERROR: CONNECTION INTEGRITY MAINTAINED."

Dr. Fawkes rushed to the control panel. "This is impossible. The system should have severed the link automatically."

She typed rapidly, initiating manual override sequences. The machine scanned us again, then displayed: "ANOMALY DETECTED: NATURAL RESONANCE PATTERN ESTABLISHED."

"What does that mean?" Marcus asked, voicing what we were all thinking.

Dr. Fawkes stared at the readout, her scientific composure finally cracking. "It means... their brains have created their own connection pathway. Independent of the SynSens."

"Is that possible?" I asked, hope rising in my chest.

"Theoretically..." She adjusted her glasses, studying the neural patterns displayed on the screen. "In extremely rare cases, the brain can form new neural pathways in response to intensive shared experiences. But I've never actually seen it happen."

Bram's grip on my hand tightened. Through our link, I felt his joy, his amazement, his love—yes, love—flowing freely.

"So what happens now?" he asked.

Dr. Fawkes shook her head, still bewildered by the readings. "I honestly don't know. You're in uncharted territory."

Marcus looked between us, finally understanding dawning on his face. "You two are... what, telepathically linked now? Permanently?"

"Not telepathy," I corrected, unable to stop smiling. "Something deeper."

As the medical staff huddled around the machine, trying to understand what had happened, Bram leaned close to me.

"I told you," he whispered. "We have a sensory channel between us."

"How did you know?" I asked. "That the machine wouldn't work?"

He smiled, touching my cheek gently. "Because you can smell when I'm lying, remember? And when I said I could live without this connection—without you—that was the biggest lie I've ever told."

As his lips met mine, I closed my eyes, experiencing our kiss from both sides—feeling my lips against his and his against mine, my heart racing and his pounding in response. The sensation was overwhelming, beautiful, complete.

When we parted, the machine displayed its final message: "STATUS: AUTONOMOUS CONTINUATION."

"What now?" I whispered against his lips.

"Now," Bram said softly, "we discover what it means to be each other's sixth sense."