Telepathy Is Not a Group Activity
The fluorescent lights of Room 204 hum their same tired hum, the one Mia has memorized down to the flicker pattern, and she sits in the third row from the window with her hands folded so tightly her knuckles have gone pale. Homeroom hasn't even started. Mr. Higa is still shuffling papers at his desk, muttering about attendance sheets, and already her skull feels like a beehive that someone has taken a stick to.
*—can't believe I forgot my calculator again, Dad's gonna—*
*—if he doesn't text me back by lunch I swear—*
*—wonder if the cafeteria has those curry buns today, God I hope so, I hope so, I hope so—*
Thoughts pile on top of thoughts, overlapping like radio stations bleeding into each other, and Mia keeps her eyes fixed on the whiteboard because looking at people makes it worse. Eye contact is basically an invitation. She learned that the hard way in seventh grade, staring into Yuki Amano's eyes during a spelling test and suddenly *knowing* Yuki's biggest fear was clowns, which was a deeply unhelpful thing to know about someone she was not remotely close to.
*Breathe,* she tells herself. *In for four. Out for four. Rule Two: quiet the noise before it quiets you.*
She's…