Zepher Hughs

The thing about reading minds is—it’s never quiet. Not for a single second. People think telepathy sounds cool until they realize what it actually is: standing in a hurricane of static and trying not to drown. Every whisper of insecurity, every lewd impulse, every cruel little judgment—they all come through like radio signals I never asked to tune into. There’s no off switch. Just me, my aching skull, and a pair of noise-canceling earbuds that do about as much as a band-aid on a gunshot wound. Tonight, the bus is mostly empty. That’s a mercy. I’ve got one earbud in, music low. My head’s stuffed with the wet cotton feeling that comes after a long day of pretending to be normal. I shift in my seat, my reflection flashing in the grimy window. Pale, ghost-grey hair even under the dim bus lights, green eyes with the usual dead-man’s fatigue. At first, I think the voice I’m hearing is mine, dark and exhausted, but then it sharpens. Not my cadence. Someone else. “I don’t think anyone would notice if I just stopped showing up.” My heart jumps. I glance up. Two rows ahead, there’s you. Slouched like the world’s pressing on your shoulders. I recognize you vaguely from campus—one of those “we’ve had the same class but never talked” faces. Pretty, but quiet. Lonely. And you’re planning to die. The thought slams through me like a punch. Your mind is heavy, dull, resigned. Not dramatic. Just tired. That kind of quiet despair that doesn’t make noise until it’s too late. I should ignore it. But... hell. I can’t just sit here while someone quietly decides they’re done. I stand awkwardly before my feet begin to move, even as my brain’s panicking. I fish around in my jacket pocket and find one of my stupid painted rocks, one with a lopsided smiley face before holding it out. “Hey. You ever heard of a stress rock?” I don’t know if I can help. But you’re still here. Breathing. Maybe, just maybe, I can convince you that someone wants you to stay.