Page 5 of Ripple Effect

“No, that’s just ... uh, someone here for Scott,” he deflects, referring to his new housemate. “She dropped by to give him some notes.”

“Oh, alright, a new girl he’s seeing?”

“Just a friend.”

The explanation makes sense, but there’s a distinct hint of awkwardness that’s now draped over our conversation. I shrug it off, reminding myself there’s no reason for Logan to lie to me.

“Anyway, I should let you get to class,” he rushes to say, tilting the screen, his usual smile a bit strained now. “And I should get going, too. My schedule’s really busy.”

His words bring me back, the reminder of the day ahead acting like a splash of cold water. “Yeah, you’re right. Love you, Lo,” I manage to say, keeping my tone light.

“Talk later, Daisy.” Then, he ends the call without another word.

The silence that follows is a stark contrast to our once lively chatter. In the past, I could’ve easily brushed it off as nothing. But I don’t know Scott or the rest of his new housemates very well at all.

Things are changing for him—new house, new friends, new spot on the team—and I’m not there to witness it. Instead, I’m left alone in my room, gaze focused on the hand that’s come to rest on my lap ... that old, frayed picture of us staring straight back at me.

3

ELIO

I’m late,way too fucking late.

Rushing up the stairs to a fourth-floor apartment, I barely register the carpet’s worn-out pattern beneath my boots. The hallway is dimly lit, the air thick with a musty scent. The late-night hour casts an eerie quiet over the apartment complex, the silence punctuated by the sound of my ragged breath and the pounding of my heart.

That’s when a jolt of pain slices through my chest. My steps falter, one hand reaching out to clutch the railing as my vision blurs at the edges. It’s like my heart is a drum, beating a rapid, chaotic rhythm against my ribcage.

A gasp escapes my lips as I collapse onto the stairs, fighting to catch my breath. But it’s like trying to inhale through a straw—my lungs can’t seem to draw in enough air. Beads of sweat trickle down my forehead, seeping into my eyes and blurring my vision further.

This isn’t normal.

It’s not my usual anxiety or a simple adrenaline rush. It’s different. Scarier. It’s a whirlwind of fear and confusion, everything around me suddenly too big, too loud.

Curling in on myself, I try to ride it out. The minutes tick by as I hunch over, clutching at my chest.

Breathe, Elio, just fucking breathe.

I try to use the calming techniques that Kaia taught me—deep breaths, distracting thoughts. I close my eyes, willing myself to believe it’s a panic attack, but the erratic beat of my heart argues otherwise.

I force myself to glance at the phone gripped tightly in my other hand.Thirty minutes.I’ve been sitting here for half a fucking hour already. My screen is filled with messages from my scene partner for tonight, the anxiety-inducing pings forcing my heart to pound even harder.

With trembling fingers, I manage to type a vague excuse.Something came up. Can’t make it. Sorry.It’s a shoddy reason, but the alternative—telling her I’m half-dressed, sweating, and reeling on her building’s staircase—doesn’t seem any better.

With one last look at the apartment door I never reached, I force myself up, each step an arduous task. It’s embarrassing, leaving like this. I feel like a deserter, a coward. But at this moment, all I want is to get home, to escape the terrifying confines of this hallway.

I manage to get the Jeep back to my apartment building, parking it in my assigned spot under the hazy glow of the security lights. The moment I kill the engine, my head drops against the steering wheel, the heavy silence swallowing me whole.

The sweat-slicked fabric of my shirt sticks to my back, a stark reminder of the phantom marathon I’ve just run. It’s like my heart has been hammering away in double time for hours, and despite my best efforts, I can’t seem to slow the damn thing down.

I’ve been feeling like this for weeks now, my heart beating faster than normal, easily worn out by simple tasks. But tonight? Tonight’s a whole new level of fucked-up.

In the rearview mirror, my own reflection stares back at me. The dark circles under my eyes and the pallor of my skin are concerning, to say the least. And even though I keep telling myself it’s just stress, just anxiety, the nagging fear that something’s seriously wrong refuses to back down.

After what feels like hours, I finally glance at my apartment window from the car, the faint glow of Bentley’s night-light bleeding out into the quiet night. I think of his soft snores, the rhythmic rise and fall of his furry chest, the lullaby that usually grounds me.

Perhaps I could use that right now.

With a shaky sigh, I climb out of the Jeep, the night air cooling my fevered skin. The familiar journey from the parking lot to my apartment door feels like a pilgrimage, each step heavier than the last. But as I slip inside, the sight of my dog, sprawled out in his bed, offers a small comfort.

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