Around nine in the evening, darkness settles outside like spilled ink, thick and unbothered. The streetlights hum faintly, casting dull yellow halos onto the pavement below. Their glow barely reaches the trees lining the road, leaving their upper branches swallowed in shadow. When the wind passes through, the leaves rustle in uneven waves, brushing against one another with a dry, papery sound. The air feels heavier at night, quieter too, as if the world is holding its breath.
I know it's just the wind. I know that.
Still, I keep my bedroom window shut. The curtains remain drawn, fabric unmoving, sealing me off from whatever exists beyond the glass. My fingers sometimes twitch with the urge to peel them back, just a little. Just enough to prove to myself that there is nothing there.
When I was younger, Dad would tell me about a red-eyed monster that wandered outside houses past bedtime. He described its body as warped and unnatural, its skin too dark for sunlight to cling to. He said it waited for curious children who opened their windows at night. I remember how his voice would lower at the end of the story, how I would pull my blanket over my head and promise never to look outside again.
He probably meant it as a joke. A harmless way to keep me in bed.
But imagination is stubborn. It grows roots.
Now, when the house falls silent and the refrigerator's faint buzz becomes the loudest sound in the background, I start noticing things. A shift of shadow near the corner of my eye. A movement that disappears the second I look directly at it. The humidifier releases a thin stream of mist beside my bed, and under the dim ceiling light, it curls into shapes that almost resemble something breathing.
I tell myself it's only vapor. Only exhaustion. Only my mind trying to entertain itself.
Even so, my shoulders stay tense.
I force my attention back to my desk. The wooden surface is slightly warm beneath my forearms, carrying the lingering heat from my study lamp. Papers are scattered everywhere, overlapping in careless layers. My graphing notebook lies open in front of me, the page already crowded with red ink.
I should be focusing on this assignment. Sir Keith spent nearly the entire period explaining derivatives through the long method, his chalk tapping against the board with every step. I remember the sound more than the lesson itself. The scrape of chalk. The electric fan creaking overhead. The murmur of classmates who understood faster than I did.
Now I'm left staring at numbers that refuse to make sense.
Everything on the page is written in red. Every variable. Every correction. Every rewritten step. Without contrast, the symbols blur together until the equations feel less like math and more like a wound bleeding across paper. My black pen ran dry earlier, and I never bothered to replace it. The faint metallic scent of ink lingers on my fingers.
I press my palm against my forehead and feel the warmth of my own skin. My other hand tightens around the pen, plastic biting lightly into my fingers as I continue solving the polynomial. I follow the steps mechanically. Expand. Simplify. Subtract. Rearrange.
Somewhere along the way, my thoughts detach.
My hand keeps moving, scratching softly against the paper, but my mind drifts upward, outward, away from the room. It feels as though my body remains seated in this chair while something inside me floats higher, suspended in a dark and endless space. In that space, there is a massive glowing panel displaying my life in real time. I watch myself write. Watch myself breathe. Watch myself exist.
It reminds me of those fictional systems in games, where tasks appear in neat boxes and rewards wait once you complete them. Except there are no rewards here. Just responsibility.
The sensation isn't frightening. It's strangely calm. Weightless.
Then the pen presses too hard and tears slightly through the page, jolting me back.
"3(x + h) – 4 – (3x – 4) equals 3x + 3h – 4 – 3x + 4…" I whisper under my breath, hearing how small my voice sounds in the room.
The air feels cooler now. Or maybe that's just my imagination again.
I stop writing and stare at the final line. My eyes trace each number carefully, scanning for mistakes. I cover half of my mouth with my hand, my breath warm against my knuckles, as if the answer might shift under pressure.
"This should be good," I murmur, though doubt still lingers at the edges of my thoughts. I draw a rectangle around the solution, the lines slightly uneven.
The sudden ding from my phone slices through the quiet.
My heart jumps before I can stop it. The sound feels sharper at night, more intrusive. I glance at the screen, the brightness briefly stinging my eyes.
An email.
From Tito Anton.
He accepted my friend request on Facebook.
For a moment, the math disappears from my mind completely. My pulse picks up, excitement replacing the lingering unease from earlier. That means he has time. That means the interview can finally happen.
I push my chair back, its legs scraping faintly against the tiled floor, and hurry to my computer. The power button clicks under my finger, and the screen glows to life. While it loads, I quickly type into our group chat, letting everyone know I'm starting the interview. My fingers move faster than my thoughts, confidence returning in small bursts.
Valerie responds almost immediately. I can almost picture her leaning toward her phone, typing enthusiastically. Nigel and Lily react a little later with emojis, which is about as expressive as they ever get.
The browser loads slower than usual. The small spinning icon feels like it's mocking me. I stack my scattered papers neatly to distract myself, aligning their edges with careful precision. The room smells faintly of paper and warm electronics.
Finally, the meeting page opens. I create the Google Meet, copy the link, and send it to both the group chat and Tito Anton. My microphone and camera remain off. I sit back down, suddenly aware of the way my heart thuds against my ribs.
A minute passes.
Then another.
When he finally joins, his camera flickers on in a blur of pixels. He's wearing a blue collared shirt, though the image quality makes it difficult to see clearly. The screen freezes every few seconds before catching up, distorting his movements. Behind him, faint background noise suggests he's somewhere outside, perhaps near a street or inside a moving vehicle.
"Uh, hi, Jane. Can you hear me?"
His voice is deep but fractured by static, the words breaking apart before fully reaching me.
"Yes, Tito. I can hear you," I reply, straightening instinctively even though my camera is off. I smooth down my shirt and sit up properly, as if posture alone can make me sound more professional.
For a brief second, I feel guilty. He looks busy. Important. Like someone with places to be.
"So… are you ready now, Tito?" I ask, keeping my tone polite.
There's a pause. The screen glitches again. His response dissolves into robotic noise, syllables stretching and snapping unnaturally.
I stand quickly and lift the Wi-Fi router, holding it higher as though offering it to the ceiling might strengthen the signal. My arm begins to ache, but I keep it raised.
Static crackles.
Then his voice clears.
"Yes," he says firmly. "Go ahead. And be quick."
And just like that, the night feels heavier again.