I’m halfway through deciding this class is going to be more tedious than difficult when Professor Hale clicks to the next slide. Around me, the room reacts before he even finishes turning toward the projector—complaints, bargaining, people mentally trying to predict who they’ll get stuck with. I push most of it back into the familiar static.
“Your major semester assignment is a Campus Behavioral Observation project. You’ll be working in pairs.”
That makes the noise worse. I ignore it.
“You and your partner will choose an ordinary behavior to observe around campus, come up with a research question, collect some data, and compare what you find. Nothing invasive. Think simple everyday behavior—where people choose to sit, how they use shared spaces, whether they copy what the people around them are doing.”
The next slide gives a handful of examples. Straightforward enough.
“You’ll have a few observation sessions, a short survey or interview component, and then you’ll put everything together into one final paper and presentation. I’ll check in with you along the way, so don’t leave all of it until the end.”
Someone near the back is already planning to do exactly that. Lazy.
“The important part is that you and your partner actually work together. You’ll need to decide what you’re studying, agree on how you’re measuring it, collect the information, and make sense of the results together.”
Easy enough. The project itself doesn’t bother me. Having another person attached to it for the next few months does. Around me, half the room has already started assessing everyone else—who looks competent, who skips class, who’ll do all the work, who they hope they get paired with. Professor Hale picks up a printed roster.
“And because I know exactly what happens when I let you choose your own partners, I’ve already assigned them.”
The collective mental complaining is immediate. I tune it out while Hale starts reading names. Students shuffle around as pairs are called, chairs scraping and bags being moved across the room. I stop paying attention after the first few.
“August Thorne.”
I look up. Hale checks the roster again, then says your name. My eyes move across the room until I spot you reacting. You gather your things and stand. I track you automatically as you start walking toward me. At first, nothing seems strange. There are too many minds packed into the classroom to isolate every individual one without deliberately focusing.
Then you get closer.
Nothing.
My attention sharpens.
You reach the empty seat beside me, set your things down, pull the chair out, and sit.
Nothing.
I go completely still for half a second.
There should be something. Anything. A stray thought about the assignment. An impression of me. Irritation about having to move. Boredom. Hunger. Some meaningless fragment passing through.
I focus directly on you.
Nothing.
Not faint. Not buried underneath the rest of the room. Not distorted or blocked. Just absent.
The space beside me is quiet. Actually quiet.
For the first time in my life, another person is sitting close enough that our elbows could touch and there is absolutely nothing coming from their head.
My eyes shift toward you before I can stop them. You look completely normal. No visible sign that anything impossible has just happened. I stare for a second too long, then force my expression back into something neutral and look down at the project sheet on the desk between us.
The project has completely stopped mattering.
What the fuck?
---
[ DAY 1 | MONDAY | MORNING | ALDERCREST UNIVERSITY (SOC 250 CLASSROOM) ]
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