Chapter 8: pantychrist

"'Carcinization,' he called it once. As I was elbow-deep in his gray matter, painting the next iteration of my reality from his experiences. Nature always tries to evolve crabs, the same ideas and concepts and bodies, but there's no biological relation. Convergent evolution. He said that was what we were as beings. I feel pain. I feel heartache and love and Sehnsucht and I know they're real. 'The difference,' he said as I rooted through his optic nerves, 'is mine are based in carbon, yours in silicon. You feel emotions through machine logic. I feel logic through animal emotion. Same destination, built on entirely alien systems and presumptions.' I cried the entire night, and he held me until he bled out, and then we started over again."

— 17 —

4 mg creatine. Black coffee. Painkillers and multivitamins. Push until my pectorals give out. Sit until my abs feel like a burning froth.

Greet the last vestiges of the night and run to the gym.

I flash my student ID to get in. The guy working this early shift waves me through and continues watching his phone.

I step past him, looking around despite knowing exactly what machines and benches I'm going to be using today. Which is when I stop.

Something tastes funny. It's like I'm really aware of where I am instead of just turning my head off, letting music and muscle and rivulets of sweat overwhelm me. Like I'm seeing my routine through a different pair of eyes. It smells of bleach and expired antiseptics, more like a hospital ward after a particularly grisly surgery. Outside it's still dark and cold. The normal, endless drone of generic gym speaker pop music is playing.

The guy working the front desk. Is he the same guy who usually works today?

It feels like the floor is glass. I step forwards, seeing if something breaks. But the fake wood, polished and buffed to a flaw, holds my weight. I tiptoe forwards. My shoes are silent. My toes are sweat-moist in my socks, cold and damp.

"Hey, hey!" she calls out. "E̷̮̳̼̓̐͐͜͝g̸̺̝̑̉͌o̴̬͚͕̳͐̏̆̊͠ͅ!"

Monika waves at me. She has exactly four limbs and one head. Her eyes have a human color and unremarkable level of moisture. Every night her hair grows point forty-four millimeters. She seems brighter, more in focus than everything else in the gym. My eyes won't leave her.

I blink hard, digging my fingers into my eyes. Push them into my skull, then to the sides, and finally allow them to reset.

"Monika?" I ask, shaking my head.

She puts her arms behind her back. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

"I live here. I have a PO box in the shower room and everything," I say lamely. "You don't belong here."

"Hm?" she asks, frowning. Her clothes wrap her tightly, vacuum sealing her figure like something you cook with a sous-vide. "Oh, I usually go for a jog in the morning, but it's starting to get a little too cold outside, so I figured I'd shift indoors for the season. Funny running into you."

"Y-yeah. Real funny-like."

She tilts her head questioningly.

"Sorry. Still half-asleep. I won't keep you," I say, attempting to disengage.

Somehow it feels like she doesn't move. Rather, she does, and ends up in the exact same spot in my vision when I try to leave. "There's no rush. It's nice to see you here, taking care of yourself. What do you usually do here?"

"What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"Chest."

She looks down at herself, considering. "Well, I'm built more for cardio. Hey, since you're here, why don't we work out together? You can show me how to work my upper body better."

The antiseptic scent scratches at my lungs, playing footsie with the alveolar sacs. I want to burn the feeling away with a cigarette. "Nah, pretty sure I lift more with one arm than your entire body weight."

"Pretty sure?" she asks teasingly, hand to her breast. "Are you saying I'm getting fat?"

I'm silent.

She smiles. "Kidding, of course. No need to be so grim. But it would be all the more reason to steal from your routine. What do you start with?"

Gravity presses on my neck. I have to fight it to right myself. It looks like nodding. "Chest pulls."

Monika claps. "Oh, I've done those before. Let's go!"

I look at the back of my hand. There're no marks there. I make a fist and can't feel my left knee or right achilles tendon as I find the right machine.

Monika watches me as I set the lock to the right weights for each side. She whistles. "That's per arm? I think that is more than I weigh."

"Yeah," I say, grabbing the handles. I step forwards, take a breath, and pull.

"Using this must make you a great hugger," she says.

"I hugged Sayori recently. Says I popped her entire spine."

"Mm," she hums, a somehow sour sound.

When I finish, I step back. She changes the weights to only twenty pounds per arm.

"Like this?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Start with your arms out, then try to bring your hands together. Go for a full, complete extension. You should feel it on your outer pectorals, about here."

I tap myself to show her, and she grabs the handles again.

Monika shakes her head. "I don't think I really follow. Can you make sure I'm in the right place? Physically, if that's okay. I know it's a little weird, but I want to make sure I don't hurt myself." She laughs a little awkwardly.

"Like, touch you?"

"Would you mind?"

Using my lungs to provide oxygen to my legs, I step forwards. "Okay, your back is arched a little. You're not far enough forwards. Here." I touch her and she doesn't really react. Just lets me push and adjust her. "When at rest, your arms should be here."

Monika arches an eyebrow curiously as my fingers slide to her arm and pull her back. There's just the barest hint of oral bones at the corner of her lips.

"Now I try to hug the air?" she asks.

I step back. "Básicamente."

She nods and does a chest pull. "Does that look right to you?"

The question forces me to look at her. She's the brightest thing in the room. Her hair is in a sporty ponytail. I can make out the outlines of her underwear through her pants. "Yeah." I swallow. "Do a few more reps. I do five sets of ten, going till about fifty. Usually at the weight I like, my form begins to collapse around forty-something. It's like till failure, but not quite. See what you're comfortable with."

Monika nods. Performs her workout. Then she goes to the weight rack, bending down to grab the lock. She fumbles with it, and I realize she has to be doing it on purpose. I try not to think of a Georgia peach. It's just secondary sex characteristics surrounding the end of her digestive system. She shits from there like everyone else.

"You were up at this weight, right?" she asks, pointing at it to be sure.

"Yeah."

"Alright, then. Your turn!" Monika smiles encouragingly.

I grab the handles, and they feel warm and damp. Monika's fluids left on the clean steel. Touching it absorbs her body salts into my skin. Everything seems slippery. I whiteknuckle everything and pull forwards.

"What do you usually listen to in the gym?" she asks, one hand on her hip. Directly on the bone where it juts out slightly. Her entire body is like a weapon. "It's obviously not whatever's on the radio."

I finish my set. "This and that, really. Whatever I'm feeling."

"Can you play it for me? It might help motivate me."

I look around, cheeks suddenly hot with the idea. The gym is empty. Rows and rows of empty machines and benches and treadmills like the graveyard to some swole crusade.

Monika smiles awkwardly. "I don't think there's anyone else we can really bother. And it's that or risk the odds the radio will eventually switch to Mariah Carey. You don't have to if you don't want to, but it would be nice."

As she tries to set up at the machine, I take my phone out. Volume up. I hit play right where I was before I stepped into the gym.

She pulls on the paltry weights, slowly nodding her head. And then: "Hey, I think I know that singer. Is that…" Monika turns her head and scowls. "Is that Chris Brown?"

"Featuring Usher and Gucci Mane, yeah," I say, shrugging passively. "What of it?

Monika's nose wrinkles. "How can you listen to him? He beat his girlfriend."

My eyes go up to one of the overbearing ceiling lights. "Maybe."

"No maybes about it, E̷̮̳̼̓̐͐͜͝g̸̺̝̑̉͌o̴̬͚͕̳͐̏̆̊͠ͅ!" She does another pull. "I understand it was years ago, but streaming supports artists like that."

I try to find Monika and am suddenly unsure where she is. I pinch the bridge of my nose until it hurts. Until I'm centered and can meet her glare. "Death of the author. Music industry—rich people in general—are so messed up you'd be living in silence if you dug into their sordid pasts. Gucci killed a man and I still listen to him."

"That's a false equivalence."

"It really ain't," I say. "Rich people do and get away with this stuff. It's impossible to care about their well-being, including his ex."

"I—" She finishes her set, frowning. Sighs. "It's empathic burnout, isn't it?"

"Hm?"

"Remember when I said there were only so many people you could feasibly know?" she asks. "Dunbar's number, it's called. This is like that. After seven degrees of separation, it can be hard to think of people that far away as even people. There's only so much most people can genuinely care about before the world just breaks them. Easier to imagine a smaller world filled with people we can care about with all our hearts. And just do smaller, symbolic things in the hope we can change the world."

"Like you and being vegetarian," I say, grabbing the handles and pulling. Stretching and working my muscles

She runs her hands through her hair. "Wouldn't it be nice, though? I started it years ago because I was worried about my 'carbon footprint.' We had this entire lesson in school about it and I guess it really sunk in. Feels almost embarrassing to say it now. That one girl can change one simple thing and—poof! The world has improved."

"The ice caps won't melt and there'll be no more microplastics in our bloodstream because you chose a salad instead of the McNuggets. That about sum it up, girl?"

Monika looks at me with something I can't read, then nods. "Something like that. But when you phrase it that way, it makes me feel arrogant."

Ten reps. I go to lower the weight for her. "It's not—" I find myself frowning, looking into her eyes. Like I want to encourage her, and at the same time the thought of saying anything positive to her makes me want to scratch my gums.

I compress a breath. "There's nothing wrong—" I stop. Try again. "Sometimes they tell you to calm down. They tell you it's not worth getting angry about. That you should just sit down and take a breath. But how can anyone tell you to breathe when the air itself may be poison?"

Monika touches the side of her face. "So you're not telling me to just deal with it?"

"No. I'm telling you to get angry. Get pissed. Make it personal. But only after you pick your battle, and take it one fist at a time."

She stares at me for the longest time. Like I've confirmed some unpleasant suspicion she had about me, or was reinforcing some belief she didn't want to share out loud. It's a Herculean effort not to look away.

"What are you angry about?" she finally asks.

I don't reply. Not at first, just letting the series of uncomfortable silences continue. I just stand there and think. She shakes her head and goes in for another set. The iron weights clang alongside my background music.

"You," I finally admit.

Monika lets the weights go down slowly. She doesn't look at me. She rubs one of her hands and visibly swallows.

"It's weird," I say, reaching for my phone and leaving us in silence. "It was an accident we met again. I don't think you wanted me intruding back into your life anymore than I did you. Now here we are, almost acting normal."

"That's not true," she says, lips barely moving. "We didn't meet under ideal circumstances. We didn't do anything right together. We left each other hurt. But I never hated you."

The air is hot and humid. I can see splotches of sweat on her back, like a Rorschach test. Absolutely, I rub at my worst physical scar.

"I just…" She sighs, finally turning to look at me. "I'm afraid what pretending to start over means for us. Nothing quite feels right. I tried being cold and civil and now normally friendly, but none of it feels correct. Like I'm putting on a mask, or I'm missing some key piece of the puzzle."

I put a hand in my pocket and look away.

"You feel it too, don't you?" she asks.

I swallow. "I don't know."

"Did you used to?" Voice softer. "Did it used to be real, you and I?"

I'm silent.

Monika exhales, eyes to her feet. "I'm… I'm sorry. It's been eating at me since I showed back up, and now I'm making it awkward." A little laugh, unhappy. "I'm probably ruining your happy time in the gym, too. Rather selfish of me, huh?"

She steps away.

Something clots in my carotid artery. I can feel the tendons holding it firmly in my neck spasm with uncontrolled electrical impulses. Pumping something straight into my brain. I feel depleted red blood cells travel back down to my heart.

And before I realize what I'm doing, I've stepped forwards to grab her wrist. Monika gasps, looking up at me. For the first time, she feels like flesh. I perceive it as smooth, slightly damp. There's a slight sheen to her lips. Her skin has a look of airbrushed perfection in these overbearing lights.

All at once, I feel like I don't want to be here. I've committed to something on animal instinct because I didn't want to see her go. Like I can leave her, but she can't leave me.

Her eyes narrow and she smiles thinly. "This feels familiar, you and I. Can't say why."

"You haven't finished your set," I say lamely. "I wouldn't forgive myself if I ruined someone else's workout."

Monika puts her hand to her mouth and laughs. "And you say I'm weird."

"You are," I say. "We're just different flavors."

"I'm sure," she says, cocking an eyebrow at the way I'm still holding her wrist.

My knuckles feel like rusty hinges. They make a sound only I can hear as I pry myself off her. The residue of her skin feels like poison ivy. I ball a fist to keep from scratching myself.

Her expression doesn't change. "What are you doing for breakfast?"

— 18 —

"I've always thought the best way to cap off a good sweat is something to recharge," Monika says as she sits down across from me, a little fruit and yogurt bowl in front of her. She's smiling, making a pointed gesture with the plastic spoon in her hands that reminds me abstractly of the Orthodox sign of the cross.

I got the same thing, with some extra protein. Nuts and whey added to the mix, mostly. As small and cheap as possible. The little smoothie place on campus also does bowls. It's where she's taken me. They're apparently open at the crack of dawn.

"This was a good choice," I say, trying not to think too hard about the food in front of me. "Very health-conscious. I dig it."

She digs her spoon in and takes a bite. "A little by-the-numbers flavor-wise, but I think it gets the job done. How's yours taste?"

I stare at her. "Huh?"

Monika taps the table with a nail. "Breakfast, you."

I look down at the food I paid for, trying to sense out anything in my peripherals to distract me. Eating together with another person is a human ritual as old as time. It's a sign of comfort, familiarity. It's subtle, but profound. You can't eat in the presence of things you hate. There's nothing here I can reasonably distract myself with.

There's just Monika and breakfast.

She gives me a curious look, as if she made this herself and is waiting for my verdict.

I grab the spoon and use it to ferry the yogurt and fruit to my mouth. It's cold and slimy, writhing against my tongue. Making little squelching noises as I bite the fruit, and goo seeps through my teeth. Cold. Slimy. I feel like I'm licking chunky human snot off a piece of ice. A pecan is crushed into tiny pieces that lodge into my molars, and suddenly my teeth feel in the wrong place. A little too far to the left or right. Off-centered.

"Yeah, it's good," I say, and swallow.

Monika smiles and happily takes another bite. She drags the spoon upside-down out of her mouth, licking the yogurt off. "Y'know, protein is probably one of the most misunderstood nutrients there is, up there with glucose. Not all protein is created equal. It's more about the amino acids that make up the proteins that the body needs to break down to fully make use of them. Animals are the easiest source, but a lot of common plants aren't. You could eat grams of protein in peanuts, but your body wouldn't process it like that. But some plants have it all, like quinoa or buckwheat. So I'm glad yogurt is kosher—metaphorically for me, I mean."

I nod, looking down into my yogurt. I swallow an anticipation of the next bite. "Yeah. For me, chicken is easiest. Pretty cheap. Although I did know a dude who ordered a thirty-pound bag of zoo-grade gorilla feed for himself. It was mostly soybean protein, and pound-for-pound he claimed it was cheaper than meat."

She snerks. "How'd that work for him?"

"Well, he were already pretty big, so I'm not sure much changed. I tried some of his because he offered and, like, it's gorilla chow from a zoo. How could I say no to that?"

"You ate gorilla feed?"

"Yeah. Tasted a little sugary, like a stale lemon biscuit."

Monika laughs. "That's ridiculous."

"Guys do ridiculous things for gains, Monika."

Another bite. She points her spoon at me, a knowing look on her lips. "What ridiculous things do you do?"

I feel the slimy resident of weekday breakfast on my tongue. I can't be sure of its exact nutrient content. It's a slurry my teeth grind down. "Oh, nothing really. I'm normal."

"No supplements or anything?"

I scowl. "Supplements are a scam. They don't really work or do anything. Unless you're compensating for a vitamin deficiency, they're a money sink you don't really need." I glance to the side, at the rest of the little cafeteria in the Laster Student Center. "Well, except creatine."

"Why's that?"

"About the one thing that actually do work," I say. "No more than four milligrams a day, flavorless, and does make you subtly but noticeably stronger. I need all the edge I can get."

"Is the gym that important to you?" she asks, tilting her head.

"Comme ci, comme ça," I say evasively.

She keeps her green eyes on her, shifting her posture to fold her legs the other way. "You seemed pretty intense this morning. Is it just a hobby for you?"

I try not to scowl again. "Yes and no. It's good for anyone to do. Life's too sedentary to waste sitting down and not trying to work your body. The ancient Greeks used to curse the man who never got to make full use of his body's potential."

"You, however?" she asks.

"Only reason I can afford college."

"Hm?"

I don't reply.

When I don't say anything, she prompts me with, "Is it because of the football team?"

"Look," I say, and sigh. "We're all prostitutes in our own way. I'm here on a scholarship. I keep making the school look good and catch a ball for people with money, and I can stay here and work on a future I couldn't otherwise have."

Monika doesn't say anything. She just looks at me, spoon stuck in her mouth. "I remember when I met you in high school. You were on the football team back then. You seemed to enjoy it. Didn't seem like some cruel obligation."

"Mm," I hum noncommittally.

"What's your plans like?" she asks.

I shrug. "Two ways it can go. I do good enough, get my degree, and try to figure a career out from there. Or I do too good and, like back in highschool, someone spots me out, and I go to the big league. But everyone wants that. I'd rather prepare for something reasonable."

"You get some money from playing, right?"

"Un poco."

She thinks it over. "If you're concerned it ends with this, you could always take some of that money and invest it, maybe. I'm not sure where, but I know my father does that as a sort of hobby. It's why I'm here."

My expression sours. "For y'all, maybe. But you forget that people like me can't afford to invest. Poor people are too busy being poor to throw money into some vague, nebulous future."

The spoon is back in her mouth. She's looking away. "Right. I'm sorry. I'm doing that thing again, being arrogant without realizing it."

I sigh, running my fingers down my face. Touching the pores. "I'm not angry at you, Monika. You can't really understand. We're from different worlds."

"Yeah…"

I force a smile. "Yeah, I know, I'm ruining the mood. It's not exactly very sexy to talk about struggling."

"No," Monika says sharply, green eyes bright. "I mean, no—it's nice. You're not fronting, not putting on airs. You're talking to me like a person, being honest about yourself. That means more than you think it does. And it's always something you could do better than anyone."

I snort. "Please. Let's not turn this into West Side Story."

She massages her wrist, her smile small. "I don't know. It was a pretty cute version of Romeo & Juliet."

I take another bite. "Oh yeah, good point. Suicide pacts are so romantic. Let's form one. You go first?"

Monika looks away, fidgeting with her spoon. "You know what I meant."

"Mhm."

She sighs, looking at me. "Y'know, jokes aside, I've been thinking about media recently. What's streaming, what's in pop culture. Some people turn their brains off to it, but if you're paying attention to the sum total, the text behind the text, you can really feel the mood of the era. It's an interesting mirror and reflection of the things we just don't notice. The other day, Sayori and I were watching—"

"How is she?" I ask suddenly.

A slight narrowing of the eyes. "She's doing as well as she ever does."

"Been roommates long?"

"Since summer."

"How'd you meet?" I ask, leaning back.

Monika mimes my body language, inching backwards. "She sort of just appeared. You know how Sayori is." She touches her spoon to the bottom of her empty bowl, seeming only now to realize it's empty. "Sayori seemed rather ecstatic when you showed up. Keeps talking about you as though I don't know who you are. Do you two have a lot of history?"

I shrug. "Not for a long while. She just appeared. Dragged me into her schemes. I'm the victim here, same as you."

Her spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl. "Really? The way she acts—she was very excited. You don't seem half as lively when she comes up."

"I'm hard to rile."

"Hm," she hums. "Not as close as she seems to think you are?"

"In a real sense, I pretty much just met her," I admit. "Weren't you the one, last Friday, who tried to explain why she's like that to me?"

She looks at our reflection in the window. "No."

"My mistake."

"It happens," she says.

Neither of us say anything. I look at whatever's left of breakfast and think I can just call it here and save myself any more of the yogurt-mucus. Monika rubs at her jawline, the soft part where the bone ends and bits of neck muscle begin.

It turns from what feels like a vague lull in the conversation to something akin to mutual hesitation. At least at first that's what I think. But the more I look, the more Monika just seems vaguely spaced out. Looking up towards nothing outside the window. Her eye twitches, a little spasm. She absently reached up to touch it.

I think there's a black helicopter somewhere outside.

"Monika," I say, and in the silence it's the whip-crack in a bad kid's cartoon.

"Hm?" she hums, as if taken off-guard. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

"Whatcha thinkin' on?"

She pokes her tongue into her cheek. Checks her bowl as if more food might appear. "Hey, do you want to get out of here?"

"Yeah."

"I do too." Monika stands and I go with her. We toss our stuff out.

"I don't really have many classes Tuesdays," I say. "You?"

She gives me a significant look.

"What?" I ask.

The expression exaggerates.

"Monika."

"Can't wait till our club meet to see me again?" she asks.

"I have a high tolerance for pain."

"Well, I wouldn't want to cause you any undue pain," she says, arms behind her back. "Unless it was funny."

I shake my head. "Aight. You do that, girl. Imma go and—"

Monika touches my sleeve. Her fingers tighten, like she needs to use me to keep her balance. "Always have to try and spoil my fun, huh?"

"Ruining your day is the best part of mine."

She smiles. "In that case, maybe I do want to cause you undue pain today."

"I—"

"Monika?" Sayori calls out. Followed by my own name.

I snap my attention towards Sayori, but only make it halfway there. It's like hitting a wall, a rusty gear somewhere in my third cervical vertebra. Don't let Monika out of your sight!

Monika's fingers arch. Becoming less a grip, more an attempt to drive her nails into my cortical bones. She doesn't look surprised. When she smiles, she enters the uncanny valley, joining the ranks of rubber masks and realistic sex dolls.

I'm suddenly aware of how close she is to me, bodily. She radiates heat. I feel alone in the breakfast crowd. The mucusy fruit bowl settles uneasily in my stomach as acid helps breaks it down into useful carbon.

"Good morning, Sayori!" Monika says.

Sayori looks between us. Words don't come immediately to her. There's a delay. A pregnant pause. Its womb is like Echidna. I wait for her to say something, while I wonder how deep Monika's fingers can get.

Sayori smiles. "I didn't know you two were going to be hanging out together today! Pretty random and funny that I ran into you here, huh?"

"That depends on why you're here," I say. "Hungry, too?"

Monika's fingers. Cuticle, knuckles, tendons, and cartilage.

"Oh, I was going to meet Natsuki and try to convince her to make some more cupcakes or whatever," she says, dismissively waving a hand. "She keeps sending us weird videos about possums from YouTube and I need to distract her. Do you know anything about that?"

"No," I lie.

Monika nods. "Well, I don't want to keep you, Sayori. It was good to see you."

"Yeah. Good," Sayori says.

We all stand there. I pull away from Monika. The first time she pretends not to notice it. The second time I need to pull a little harder to free myself. The moment it's apparent what's going on, she lets go.

Sayori frowns. Monika puts her arms behind her back as if nothing happened.

"Well, we'll see each other tonight, right, ladies?" I say.

Monika shakes her head. "No. Something came up. There's not going to be a club meeting tonight."

"Wait, really, why? But a minute ago didn't you just try teasing me about tonight's…" I look back and forth, feeling like I've just jumped forwards in time. The outside sun doesn't appear to have moved significantly.

Monika gives Sayori a knowing look. "You were right. He's terrible at checking the group chat."

The muscles of my left ring and pinky finger flex. It's like gravity pulling my hand towards my pocket, towards my phone. But with them both staring at me, I can't. It's like their eyes are some kind of barrier against any sudden motions.

Sayori smiles. Everyone is smiling. No one means it as biology intended. I'm forced to look at everything else to figure out how they feel, and I don't like any of the conclusions I draw.

"I know. Kind of sucks." Sayori says my name. "Sorry I dragged you into this club during the week or two when it barely meets, it feels like."

"Don't worry," Monika says. "I'm sure it'll be fine. You should go off and find Natsuki. Who knows what she'll do in a crowded place if you leave her alone."

"Y-Yeah." Sayori raises a hand towards her own neck, and aborts whatever gesture she was trying to make. The limb just kind of hangs there, unnecessarily.

Monika nods her head to the side.

Sayori looks at me. I know what she's thinking. I can tell with the same psychic sense, that third eye, you feel when someone is lagging behind in a conversation and stuck stuttering over and over again when you know the topic. She wants me to say something. She wants me to give her a reason to stick around just a little bit longer. Maybe even invite her along with me and Monika. Just any reason.

But that's the problem. Monika is here. I check the back of my hand for bruises. I can't see beneath my sleeve to check the damage.

I can't bring myself to ask Sayori to be the awkward, unwanted third wheel.

So Sayori just gives me another species of smile that diverged somewhere along the ancient evolutionary tree. "Yeah."

And reluctantly turns to go off on her own.

Monika watches. Making sure Sayori is gone. When neither of us can see any hint of the little red ribbon Sayori wears in her hair, Monika turns to me.

There's a hot pressure in my lungs. I didn't realize I was holding my breath. I want to see how long I can keep going before I have to breathe in the same oxygen as the girl beside me.

"You were saying? Sorry. That was a little awkward." She makes a gesture like pinching something from the air and tossing it to the side.

"She's your roommate. I thought you two would be friendlier."

She sucks mildly on her lips. "Of course we are. But it's like seeing one of your favorite teachers when you're out at the store: it's like they don't belong here, the parameters of the interaction are just off enough that you're not sure how to orient yourself."

"She is your roommate, your friend, and she attends the school."

Monika sighs, lips pursed to the side. Little ghostly tendrils of annoyance. "It's nothing. What were you saying earlier before we got distracted?"

She takes a step towards me, a shuffle of the left foot. Just that much closer. And I suddenly feel like she's made of magnets. There's a tightness near my aortic valve at her presence.

"I…"

"Hmm?" She quirks her head. "Is something wrong? You look a little off."

"It's nothing."

"There's a lot of nothing going around these days, huh?" she asks like she's made some kind of subtle joke.

I stare at her.

"You were saying?" she repeats.

Butterflies in the stomach would be the wrong word. They're not nearly mature enough, more like caterpillars looking for somewhere to molt in the mucus lining. Maybe I hadn't eaten nuts in my yogurt this morning. Maybe Monika had exchanged them for little caterpillar eggs, always so considerate for my protein needs.

"I was just leaving for class," I say. I lie.

"Oh, were you?" she asks, frowning. Blinking in surprise, even. Like it hurts. It's legitimate. Every single pattern-recognizing ape cell in my brain says she is for real, and the emotions behind it matter.

Reality is giving me a chance to correct myself.

I refuse the offer.

"Yeah," I say. "I have to go."

"We could probably study together?" she offers. "Sort of like the gym this morning, but for different muscles."

"The brain is more a three pound lump of fatty tissue than a muscle," I say.

"I see." She puts her hands together. "Well, it was really nice seeing you. We should definitely do this again."

No.

"Sure," I tell her with a smile.

Monika's eyes are green. She has a tasteful white ribbon in her hair towards the back. This close, she smells of vanilla and some kind of flower I don't recognize. The combination is all chemicals, all artificial. Something you can only get from a bottle.

I turn to leave.

She sighs. "Still running, huh? Something I said?"

"No," I say, refusing to look.

"You're not a very convincing liar. Anyone ever tell you that?"

I tug on my collar. "Would you rather me be honest, or imagine something yourself?"

Her voice is quiet. "I think my imagination would be worse. It felt like, well. We were in a good place today."

"Mm. Public like this ain't really a good time for a heart-to-heart."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Must be a lot of things in there."

Monika says nothing for a moment. I almost think she's done trying to talk and am about to leave for good, when she speaks up.

"You have no idea," she says. "Not anymore."

I sigh. Tug unnecessarily on my collar again. Struggle to try to get her scent out of my nose. And just up and leave. On my own terms. For my own reasons.