Page 31 of Into Pitch

Or maybe it did, just not in the way I expected.

“Clear your head,” I mutter, grabbing my phone. Because I’m apparently crazy enough now that I need to start talking to myself.

I tell myself that I’m just curious and that it’s a part of processing it all. That therapy doesn’t come with rules but what you’re allowed to think about as I dive in. Deeper and deeper.

The internet, predictable, is useless at first.

I search vague phrases; Pitch event, masked immersive experience, silver charm bracelet. Most of what comes up is absolute nonsense. It’s deleted posts and cryptic captions on private accounts, blurry photos of wrists with chains and charms and no context.

No names.

No locations.

No explanations.

It’s like the entire thing exists in negative space. Defined more by what people don’t say than what they do.

I scroll through a forum thread where someone asks if Pitch is “worth it.” The replies range from best night of my life to don’t go if you value your sanity. There aren’t real details or any follow-up worth chasing down.

My thumb is swiping to another thread when I see it.

A photo, half-hidden between two posts of empty bracelets and vague captions. One of a man’s wrist, pale and tense, veins standing out beneath the skin, and upon it sits a silver charm that is unmistakable.

It’s the same that hangs from my own.

The little beaked mask gleams dull silver in the photo, angled just enough that the shape is clear. The background itself is blurry, but it looks like a bar top if I had to guess. A drink just barely out of frame.

I stare at it for a long moment, pulse thudding in my ears. This man survived too, or maybe endured is the better word. Had he also fucked Plague? Is that the only way one passes his strange test?

I tap onto his profile and curse quietly when I find that it’s private, however… Chicago is listed right there as his place of residence.

My stomach flips and I sit for a solid minute, arguing with myself. Messaging him is a bad idea, and kind of reckless. But this is exactly the kind of thing I do when something crawls under my skin and refuses to let go.

“Fuck it,” I whisper.

I hit message.

The cursor blinks, waiting for me and I type each word next deliberately.

Hey. I know this is random, but I saw your bracelet photo. I recognize the charm, because I was at Pitch too. I survived Plague as well. I’m not looking to cause trouble or break any rules, I just… need to understand something.

I delete the last sentence and rewrite.

I’m trying to make sense of my experience, and it looks like yours was different from mine maybe? If you’re willing to talk, I’ll meet you wherever and whenever you’re comfortable. Dinner or drink is on me.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering again.

This could go nowhere and he could ignore me—hell, he could block me or tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. Worse, he could tell me something I don’t want to hear.

I think of the letter tucked beneath my bench, though. Of my mother choosing everything except me and the way I learned to accept silence as an answer. I decide that silence is no longer good enough.

I hit send and the message disappears into the void, marked delivered.

No reply comes immediately, but I don’t expect one. I set my phone face-down on the table and exhale slowly, like I’ve just stepped off the ledge and realized I’m still standing.

The bus feels too quiet again and I pull the notebook back out, flipping it open to a fresh page. The homework isn’t done, not really. And avoiding it won’t make it easier next session.

I write the date at the top and stare at the blank space beneath it.