Page 22 of The Love Operation

My heart rate increases. It’s like I’ve just taken a breath of fresh air, but it’s clear, beautiful air, away-from-technology, mountainous air. My mind feels clear and focused—no noise, just sharp clarity.

“I think the med cocktail’s kicking in,” I say, scanning the room as if I’ve just walked into it.

Her eyes go wide and bright. “Yeah? What are you feeling?”

I stretch my hands in front of me, fingers flexing like I could actually hold the sensation in my palms. “More.”

She nods, as if she already understands.

“It’s like . . . paths have opened in my mind that were closed before, that I never even knew existed. I feel like I can breathe better. Like my whole body is processing information faster. Everything’s sharper.”

Her smile grows wider. “Good. Good.”

Something in her eagerness makes me shift. I don’t like feeling like an experiment, but I remind myself—again—to trust this. I trust Delenn. And I want what this can give me—an edge.

“Let’s start the electrical stimulation then. You ready?”

As much as the wires will allow, I shift in the chair and give her a confident “Yes. Absolutely.”

Then, before she even applies the current, something in me opens. My thoughts go clear.

“This drug combination is incredible.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she says, her eyes gleaming as she moves to the machine that controls the current. “It’s only two milliamps,” she explains, gesturing to the control panel. “You should feel a mild tingle, maybe a little warmth. I’ll turn the screen on first.”

She’s in coordinator mode because I already know this. Honestly, I feel confident I could run this experiment without her. “Great. Let’s do it.” I’m ready now. No turning back. It’s time to fully surrender—to receive everything this can offer.

Delenn squares her shoulders like she’s stepping onto a stage. With a click of her remote, the screen lights up, displaying the surgical technique for Chiari malformation type 1, a brain abnormality where the lower part of the brain extends into the spinal canal, where it shouldn’t be.

It’s not a procedure I’d normally perform—it belongs to neurosurgery, not orthopedic spine—but that’s why it’s perfect for testing memory retention outside my typical wheelhouse.

Delenn exhales. “Here we go.” She turns the dial.

A slow warmth blooms across my scalp—like static building before a shock.

“Whoa,” I breathe, because it’s the only word that makes it past the sensation.

Delenn leans in, her pen poised, eyes locked on mine. “What are you feeling? Tell me everything.”

But for a moment, I can’t speak. Everything is too much.

My body tenses, muscles buzzing with unfamiliar energy. The room is suddenly too bright, even though I know the light hasn’t changed. A faint, high-pitched hum rings in my ears.

And then—blueberry pie.

The scent floods my senses, rich and warm, like a memory spilled from another room in my brain. I blink. “Did you put blueberries in the diffuser?”

Delenn frowns. “No. Why?”

I open my mouth to explain, but then—it’s gone. The overstimulation recedes like a wave pulling back from shore, leaving behind perfect stillness. Unshaken clarity.

I exhale, my pulse steadying. I want to bottle this state of mind, keep it forever. But instead, I try to describe it. “I feel . . . open,” I say. “Like everything I take in right now will become part of me. Like I’ve been operating at half capacity, and now my brain is hungry and wants more.”

She looks pleased. “Great. And physically?”

I scan my body. Different. “My senses are heightened. It’s like I can feel the hairs coming out of my skin.”

She skims my forearm with the tip of her pen, and I inhale sharply.