Another thought tugged at me, something that had been gnawing at the edges of my mind since the fire.
“The other day,” I whispered, “when you got scared… why were you scared for me?”
The pen hovered.
Stilled.
Then moved with jerky, urgent strokes:
C U D N T F E L
I frowned. “You couldn’t feel what?”
A beat.
The pen scratched again.
U
My breath hitched.
“You couldn’t feelme? Do you feel me?” I asked, voice barely above a breath.
Echo hesitated — long enough that unease prickled along my spine.
Then she wrote:
I N S I D
Inside.
A cold ripple went through me.
I leaned back on my bed slowly, staring at the word, my heart thudding hard against my ribs.
Echo could feel me.
But only from the inside.
What the hell does that mean?
“When you feel me… is it only when I’m in the Institute?” I whispered.
The pen moved immediately:
Y E S
“And what do you feel, Echo?”
My voice softened. “When you feel me?”
A pause — like she wanted to get the word right.
Then:
F R E N D
A shaky breath left my lungs. I hadn’t realised how tight they’d been.
