Chapter 5
Five
“A peculiar case of flight or fight.”
By the time I got home, my brain had short-circuited.
Every sound felt like it came from behind a curtain, muffled and slow, like my hearing loss had decided to spread to both ears.
Adam said something about needing socks or snacks or schoolwork, but I wasn’t sure.
My dad was watching the sky again, and I think I responded with a noise that could be interpreted as either “yes,” “no,” or “leave me be.”
I made it to my room like a person moving through molasses. Closed the door behind me, I dropped my bag, sat on the edge of my bed, and stared at the wall.
What had just happened? The kitchen, the music, his voice—the dare. His stillness when our eyes met—the way it wasn’t just a joke, wasn’t even flirtation, but something else. Something that landed somewhere deep, like a weight—and the implication: I don’t think it’s a coincidence.
Is he right? My skin tingled with something electric and uneasy, like a storm was trapped just beneath the surface. My chest felt tight: not painful, just a familiar alertness.
My body remembered what adrenaline felt like.
Pilots are trained to notice changes: wind shifts, turbulence, the twitch in your gut that says danger is near.
This was different, but similar. That uneasy stillness that comes just before a stall.
I kept adjusting my breathing, slow in, slower out.
Muscle memory from training: calm the panic before it becomes a spin.
I opened my laptop. The music was still in my inbox, and the last track from the playlist was the one he’d added just that morning.
Come Near Me by Massive Attack ft. Ghostpoet. I clicked play.
It was low, pulsing, almost dangerous: a song that curled around your ribs and whispered things it had no business whispering.
I lay back and listened, feeling it sink into my bones.
The kind of song that doesn’t ask for permission: it just takes.
I put Come Near Me on repeat and slowly dozed off, lulled by the rhythmic and sensual pulse of the beat.
The next morning, I stared at a blank email for too long before finally typing:
From: Alicia King
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Eyes
You’re not wrong. I do dodge the IT room—I have my reasons for it.
But yesterday… I’d do it again. And you’re right: they’re stormy, one could drown.
Landing in stormy weather is a different kind of thrill, one I vaguely remember.
But that’s a topic for another story. The music, especially the last one, that was the real dare, wasn’t it?
It did something. You’re either really good at choosing songs or dangerous.
So what now?
A.
I sent it before I could talk myself out of it. Then I leaned back, closed my eyes, and forced myself back to work.
Three hours later, three coffees in, five glances at my inbox per hour… okay, maybe more. I clicked refresh: nothing. I stared at my screen so long that the icons started to pulse. I picked up my mug and headed for the kitchen. Mia intercepted me at the printer.
“Hey. You okay? You’re walking back and forth like a tiger in a zoo.”
“Hmm? Yeah. Totally.” I tried for casual. “Just wondering if the…uh…email system’s been weird?”
She squinted. “Weird how?”
“Like, slow? Or stuff not showing up?” I said too quickly. “Maybe something’s delayed?”
Mia squinted. “Nope. Mine seems fine. Want me to march down and yell at the IT crew again? It’s been a while. Maybe it’s one of those updates that takes ages.”
“Yeah, no, everything’s fine, we’re all just erm… waiting to hear if Adam got into any universities he applied to. He looks like a bum but even I have to admit he’s the smartest King I know.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue.
“Ah. Stress-mail syndrome. Understood.” She eyed me. “You look flushed. Are you hiding something?”
“Me? Never.”
She let it go. I spun on my heel and walked off without getting water for my tea.
Back at my desk, I pretended to focus. Highlighted and un-highlighted the same cell in a spreadsheet for seven minutes—Kevin, the cactus, remained unimpressed.
I scrolled back through the email thread with Paul, re-read his last message.
The playlist link. Again. Tried to remember if I’d said something wrong.
Was it too much? Too forward? Tried not to think about what I might have misread or misheard.
“So what now?” Had I scared him off? I glanced toward the IT room once, wondered if he was in there, and if anyone else had noticed how my hand was trembling.
Adam texted later that afternoon:
Did aliens abduct you, or did Tommo finally put you in the dungeon?
I didn’t answer. Just stared at my phone and wished I could explain the kind of silence that doesn’t just mean “busy,” but starts in your chest and spreads outward.
I got on the bus home, put on my earbuds, and played that song again. And I couldn’t help but wonder if he meant for it to feel like a warning. I was still half-listening to it as I made it home, the song haunting the corners of my room, when I heard Adam’s voice from downstairs.
“Alicia! You better come down! There’s something weird with the mail!”
Mail? I blinked. Who even used mail anymore unless it was bad news or a coupon for teeth whitening?
But his tone wasn’t casual. I took off my earbuds and made my way downstairs, heart thudding a little too hard for no good reason. Adam was standing by the kitchen counter, waving one envelope like a surrender flag. His face was carefully blank, a look I knew way too well.
“What’s up, kid?” I said, trying to sound breezy.
He dropped the thicker envelope onto the counter with a slap. “One’s from UBC. No dice.”
I glanced at it. The University of British Columbia: I knew it was his backup.
“Oh well,” I said, reaching for a pot in the cupboard. “Their loss. Stanford’s cooler anyway. And, no offense, kid, but you would’ve been eaten alive by the Lululemon crowd.”
He snorted, relief flickering across his face. “You’re just saying that because you still owe me fifty bucks.”
“True,” I said, pouring water into the pot. “And I’m not paying you until you earn your diploma. Fine print.”
I didn’t say: I know you’re disappointed. And I’m proud of you anyway. Some things didn’t need to be said out loud between us.
“Making victory dinner?” he asked, leaning over my shoulder.
“Mac and cheese. Extra curds. Like Mom used to.” I elbowed him gently. “Only winners allowed.”
He gave me a small grin and flopped into one of the kitchen chairs, sneakers tapping against the floor in some mindless rhythm.
While the pasta boiled, Adam sorted through the rest of the day’s mail. Flyers, bills, and a pizza menu from a place we already hated. Then he froze, pulling out a plain white envelope.
“No return address,” he said, frowning. “It’s for you.”
He tossed it onto the counter, next to the bubbling pot. I wiped my hands on a towel and picked it up. No stamp, just Alicia neatly printed in block letters.
“Maybe it’s anthrax,” Adam offered helpfully.
“Or a coupon for emotional collapse,” I muttered.
Inside was a single photograph. Black and white: it was me, in the hangar in front of an ageing Cessna that my parents used to take flying in.
Laughing, arms spread, wild hair, in Dad’s oversized big bomber jacket.
Caught in a moment I hadn’t thought anyone had remembered, let alone saved.
It could have been the pivotal moment when I decided I wanted to become a pilot. For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
Adam leaned closer. “Whoa.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. My voice didn’t sound like my own.
“Who sent it?”
“No idea.”
We stared at it together: the younger me, so free and reckless, completely unaware of what was waiting around the corner. A body not yet shaped by pain.
“Maybe,” Adam said slowly, “you’ve got a secret admirer. Some pilot dude who’s been pining in secret.”
“Or,” I said, slipping the photo back into the envelope, “someone trying to remind me of who I used to be.”
The pasta boiled over. I jumped, shaking myself free of the heaviness.
“Great. We’re gonna die of starvation and bad taste,” Adam said, waving a tea towel at the stove.
“Shut up and get the plates,” I said, smiling for real this time.
Later that night, when Adam had gone upstairs to binge a disaster show about a cursed cruise ship, I tucked the envelope into the drawer of my bedside table. Whoever sent it, whether it was a joke or a blessing or a curse, they’d remembered a version of me that had quietly stopped existing.
I stared at the ceiling for a long time. The house hummed around me, small, ordinary, and safe. Then, before I could lose my nerve, I reached for my phone. Typed, simply: Still here. My thumb hesitated, but it was done.
I already knew it was a bad idea and regretted it immediately. By morning, the doubt had taken over. What if he doesn’t even remember you? What if you imagined the whole thing?
Day one: no reply. Day two: radio silence.
By lunchtime on the third or fourth day, I had mentally filed it under “dumb things done by people who should know better,” and decided I’d delete his playlist and block his address, whatever it took to erase the little scar his absence was digging into my chest. I didn’t owe him hope.
I clicked on my inbox just once more before lunch—just because habit is a cruel thing—and there it was.
New Message: From Paul Andersen.
Subject: Not the Way I Wanted.
Hey you. Thought this deserved a little more than three rushed lines. See attached.
P
I stared at it for a full minute before clicking. And then I opened the attachment.
Attachment: “letter.docx”
Hey you.
If I were better at simple things, I’d just say I’m sorry and leave it at that. But simple’s never really been my thing. I didn’t mean to disappear, and I wasn’t ignoring you. (And if you think I’m just saying that, then you’re braver than I thought—which you already are.)
Truth is: the last few days have been a hurricane of moving trucks, bad coffee, lost socks, and realizing that I am much worse at packing boxes than I ever was at pretending to be an adult. I finally got my own place. It’s small, too close to the dumpsters, and smells of last year’s pizza.
But it’s mine.
Some people measure their lives in milestones. I seem to measure mine by what I leave behind.
That day in the kitchen: you, standing there, mug in hand, the way you looked right at me like you weren’t afraid. I think something cracked open. Not many things or people surprise me, and you didn’t even realize it, did you? That you did something most people don’t dare anymore.
You saw me. And let me see you.
For what it’s worth, you’re the last person I would’ve chosen to hurt, even accidentally. Sometimes I think the only two real things in life are flight and gravity. Everything else is just noise in the middle. I don’t know where you land in that yet. But you’re rare.
So, you’re going to Victoria soon? Good place for disappearing: ferries full of strangers you’ll never have to explain yourself to. Just try not to get lost in the wrong parts.
(And if you hear the right kind of music along the way… lean into it.)
P
I sat back in my chair, blinking hard at the screen.
The office around me buzzed and hummed, phones ringing, keyboards clacking: the usual mechanical ballet.
But all I could hear was the low roar of blood rushing through my ears.
The letter wasn’t perfect, far from it. I didn’t quite understand yet why he moved, or why he thought he needed to write a letter in the first place.
It wasn’t an apology either. I stepped outside.
Found a quiet corner of the terrace, let the wind cool the fire in my chest. Whatever this was, it was already something. It was real, and it was mine.
That night, back at home, I wrote back: kept it short and kept it me.
From: Alicia King
Subject: Re: Not the Way I Wanted
Escape to Victoria confirmed. Staying with a friend-of-a-friend: not glamorous, but needed. Not sure yet if it’ll be the harbour, bookstores, or a week of coffee and silence.
A.
He replied immediately.
From: Paul Andersen
Subject: Re: Re: Not the Way I Wanted
I know simpler ways to reset.
P
My heart stuttered. Was he joking? Flirting? I couldn’t tell. So I decided to sleep on it, instead, or at least try. It was a dreamless night.
I typed back the next morning.
From: Alicia King
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Not the Way I Wanted,
It depends.
A.
The next few hours passed in a blur. Later that afternoon, when the office was starting to thin out, people grabbing early Fridays, sneaking away for long weekends, Paul passed by: not toward me, just casually past. But as he did, he dropped something onto my desk without a word.
A folded sheet of paper, bright colors peeking from the edge. I opened it slowly.
It was a flyer for the Victoria Jazz Festival. Bold notes, cartoon musicians, music notes flying across Parliament lawns. And across the bottom, written in neat, slanted handwriting:
Depends on whether you want to hear music or just noise.
No signature, no wink: just that. He was already halfway down the hall when I looked up: he didn’t glance back, didn’t break stride. But somehow, I knew he felt me watching him go. I stared at the flyer for a long moment, heart rattling. Flight or gravity. Music or noise. What would I choose?