Me:The serotonin levels decrease if the brain isn’t actively engaged.
Nothing for a whole minute. I chuckle.
Me:Your brain checks out.
Nate:Ah. Duh.
Smiling, I picture his place and wonder what surprises he allows himself there. What he withholds.
Me:It’s the peekaboo principle. You get your serotonin rush when you figure out where something went.
Several attempts later, another text comes through.
Nate:It works with people too, I think. It’s peak shift. Turning the volume up so the brain pays attention.
My fingers curl around the book’s spine. I think of his old Chicago apartment. The Myes Van der Rohe decal that only revealed itself in the right lighting—because he’s such a fucking nerd. My brain didn’t pick up on the shifts it should have. I tug my knees closer, the leather of the chair cool against my shoulder.
Me:We want clarity, loudness, not always accuracy. The brain’s evolved to trust environments that don’t surprise it in bad ways.
I let out a shaky breath. Three dots linger.
Nate:That’s probably why brutalist buildings feel hostile to some people. Too much contrast. Too much isolation. The brain can’t group anything, and it’s exhausting.
I typeIs that why you kissed Tessa?but delete it.I still have questions.I almost typeDid you end up fucking Tessa? Was she worth it?My fingers type something safer—my brain is hardwired to avoid another bad surprise.
We text back and forth for a while. Mostly about the book, with inevitable subtext threaded in every word. I shift, lowering my feet to the floor, grounding myself as if that will slow the warmth creeping up my chest. I close the book, pressing the cover flat with my palm.
Nate:We’ve only got two chapters left.
I nod even though I don’t think he can see me.
Nate:Would you want to read something else after? Or… not?
I tuck the book against my ribs, feeling its weight.
Me:Why don’t you let me pick this time?
The dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Nate:Yeah?
I don’t hesitate.
Me:Yeah.
The reply comes softer somehow, even through text.
Nate:I’d like that a lot.
As I put the blinds down before heading to bed, I can’t entirely avoid glancing into his apartment. Even when I manage to avoid searching forhim, it’s useless because my brain fills in the gaps, and in my mind, he smiles. Beneath my feet, the wooden slats wobble, it’s not just a creaky floor, it’s my brain remembering a foundation that didn’t hold.
When I stepinto the exam room, Mr. Matthews is smiling, perched upright on the paper-covered exam table. The room is narrow, and fluorescent lights reflect off pale-blue walls and stainless-steel fixtures. A laminated brain diagram curls slightly at one corner, peeling away from the wall near the sink.
“Dr. Hollis,” he says, voice bright, hands folded neatly over his stomach. “I’m so happy you’re in today! Nobody listens the way you do!”
I smile and nod, crossing to the sink and scrubbing in. The water runs too hot at first, steam rising briefly before settling. “How’s the dizziness?”
“Gone. Completely.” He taps the side of his head, careful, reverent. “Ever since you caught that little hitch in my noggin.”
