The Space Between Numbers

Unexpected Variables

my sister woke me up at 5 this morning 🫩
imma need my dresser to take me out again
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The next morning, Milo woke before the alarm, as usual, counting the seconds between his breaths without even thinking about it. One... two... three... four. His chest felt tight, heavier than normal, a pressure that made the air feel too thin. He traced the corners of his ceiling. One, two, three, four. Predictable. Steady. Enough to remind him that something in the world remained under control.

His room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and yesterday's dust. His pencils were still lined up perfectly along the edge of his desk, and the notebook pages were squared into neat rectangles. Good. Safe. He dressed carefully, straightening his hoodie collar three times, then five times. The fifth felt finally right.

By 7:17 a.m., he left, backpack slung precisely over his shoulders, straps even, steps counted meticulously as he walked down the cracked sidewalks toward school. Seventeen cracks passed beneath his shoes. He stopped at seventeen. Seventeen was safe.

Even before he entered the building, Milo's chest beat a little faster than usual. He tried to tell himself it was nothing, just a normal morning, but a small flicker of anticipation refused to go away. His hands flexed at his sides, fingers tracing imaginary lines in the air.

⸻

Entering the school, the noise hit like a wave: lockers slamming, chatter bouncing off brick walls, distant whistles from gym class. The fluorescent lights hummed faintly, imperceptible at first, but now it grated, pressing against his nerves. Milo's chest tightened further. He swallowed, counting in his head. One... two... three...

Sadie appeared instantly, weaving through the crowd, and fell into step beside him. "Morning," she said softly, voice like a tether to something calm. "You look... tense."

"Maybe," Milo whispered.

Liam appeared a moment later, headphones dangling. "Hey, ready for chaos?" he asked casually. Milo nodded, even though the word 'ready' felt impossible.

The hallway stretched endlessly before him. He forced himself to keep counting his steps, each one deliberate, grounding him. One... two... three... four... five... until he reached the classroom.

⸻

Chemistry smelled of antiseptic and faint metal, and the sharp tang made his chest tighten further. Milo slid into his usual seat near the window, arranging his notebook and pencils along the desk edge. Three taps on the margin. Safe. Good.

And then he saw him.

Finn.

He was standing by the lab counter, adjusting the straps on his backpack. Milo's eyes tracked him without permission. Broad shoulders. Relaxed but deliberate posture. A subtle tilt of the head, like he belonged to the room without effort. Milo's chest constricted—tight, fast, strange.

And then the eyes. One deep, dark blue, almost black, like night pressed against the stars. One green, like sunlight through a dense forest, shifting and unpredictable. Milo blinked rapidly, trying to refocus on his notebook, but the contrast in Finn's gaze pulled him in like a gravitational force.

His hands trembled slightly. He counted silently: one... two... three... four... five... six... seven... seven felt wrong. No, eight. Eight was better. Numbers were supposed to anchor him, but Finn—Finn made numbers feel irrelevant.

⸻

Finn noticed him, smiled softly, a quiet curve of lips that seemed effortless but precise. Milo's stomach fluttered something unfamiliar. Not panic, not dread, not fear. Just... attention. All-consuming attention. His hands clenched in his lap, trembling.