At his office door, I knock, forcing my mind into clarity. I give myself a quick, silent slap on the cheek, as if I can knock the haze out of my skull. A muffled voice answers, granting permission. I twist the handle and step inside.
The office greets me with an explosion of quiet chaos. Books everywhere—stacked on the floor, piled on the desk, even balanced precariously on the windowsill. None of them are arranged, yet somehow the disorder feels deliberate. The air smells of old paper and bergamot tea, with a faint undertoneof rain seeping through a cracked window. Dust drifts lazily in the warm light, tiny golden flecks suspended like thoughts that never quite landed.
“Ah, James!” Bennett’s voice breaks through the stillness, bright and unrestrained as I close the distance between us. A wide smile spreads across his face as he stands, sweeping the clutter of folders and loose papers into his bag. “It’s so good to finally meet you. I’ve been counting the minutes to our meeting.”
Oh, me too.
I return the smile, measured and professional, the kind of expression that conceals rather than reveals. He extends a hand, and I take it, noting the too-firm grip and the faint tremor beneath the enthusiasm. Up close, he looks almost identical to the man in the file I studied, but the glint in his eyes tells a different story. That’s where the madness lives—a feverish gleam of devotion that has gone too far.
He moves with erratic energy, words spilling from him in restless bursts. He talks about his latest project, about breakthroughs and theories, about sleepless nights chasing brilliance.
If he only knew.
Before I can shape a single response, he is already nodding toward the door, urging me forward with a quick sweep of his hand. I fall into step behind him, though a brief pulse of confusion stirs in my chest. He must notice it, because he lets out a laugh that rings high and nervous.
“I thought we could take our conversation somewhere more private,” he says, locking the office door behind us with a metallic click. “Somewhere more comfortable.”
“I agree,” I answer with a tone that feels flat and almost bored, even though my pulse is tightening beneath the surface. His constant stream of chatter scrapes against my patience,stirring something dark inside me—a reckless urge, pressing in close and whispering for a way out.
My mind has been unpredictable lately, so I can’t tell how long I’ll manage to suppress it.
“There’s a cafeteria near the university. A beautiful place. Always manages to focus me on my work. Quiet, cozy, just right for us,” he explains, adjusting his glasses with the practiced motion of a man who has done it a thousand times, a subtle glint flashing across the lenses.
We move through the corridor in near silence, students and other professors drifting past us while he offers each of them a brief farewell. Only once the flow thins does he finally turn to me, a faint gleam of curiosity flickering in his eyes.
“What do you have to say about sanity?”
The question lands like a coin tossed into still water, a tiny splash sending widening circles across the quiet. I draw in a slow breath, letting the air expand inside my chest before releasing it in a quiet exhale.
That is an interesting question. Far too interesting. Especially for someone like me. The irony does not slip past me; it catches and claws at me instead, sharp in its intention and impossible to ignore.
“I believe that—” I begin, the words snagging against something jagged inside my throat. I sift through possible phrasing, hunting for a version of the truth that does not sound unhinged. When I look at him, his eyes shimmer with an unnatural brightness, like sunlight trapped in glass. In an instant, the urge to hide slips away, peeled off and left bare by that almost manic glimmer.
Maybethisis the right moment to tell the truth.
“Sanity is just the mind’s way of keeping you safe from what you really are,” I say finally, and his brows draw together,thoughtful. “Strip it away, and all that’s left is the part of you that doesn’t pretend anymore.”
A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. The thoughtful mask melts into something else—something almost admiring.
“Trauma,” he murmurs, as if testing the taste of the word.
“What?” I ask, thrown off balance.
“I sense the trauma beneath the composure,” he says softly, his tone drifting somewhere between fascination and pity. “The detachment in your tone isn’t intellectual. It’sdefensive.”
A pressure blooms in my chest, tight and constricting, spreading outward until it fills me. I swallow against the dryness in my throat, the air suddenly too heavy, too thick to breathe.
My jaw locks, and a faint twitch pulls at my lips. The tension climbs into my shoulders, settling there as something solid and immovable—a weight I cannot shake loose.
“You’ve been on the other side of reason, haven’t you?” he asks quietly.
The words strike me with the sharpness of a slap, and I nearly collide with the front door before coming to a sudden stop. For a moment, I cannot piece together how we already made it to the exit. The world tilts slightly out of sync, its edges blurring as my thoughts slide over one another like restless static. The strange pressure inside me twists and churns, battling against the tightness in my chest, each force clawing for control.
The sensation carries a haunting familiarity. I cannot place where it comes from, yet some part of me recognizes it. Deep beneath the surface, in a place I cannot reach, the memory waits. But when I push my mind to grasp it, all I meet is a sweep of darkness—a quiet void that hums gently like wind moving through an abandoned corridor.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply sharply.
He does not answer, offering only a smirk as he pushes the door open. The hinges let out a low groan before yielding, and a rush of cold, rain-filled air sweeps inside. I draw it in deeply, the chill slicing through the stifling heat simmering beneath my skin.
