Chapter 10: Touch Me Before The Glitch Becomes Our Truth
The government's official broadcasts repeated like clockwork across every screen and device, their tone calm but firm. "Any reports concerning 'roamers' have been thoroughly investigated.
No credible evidence links these individuals to criminal activities or public safety threats. Citizens are encouraged to trust verified sources and disregard rumors."
Online, social media posts were flooded with hashtags promoting safety and unity, while any content mentioning roamers was flagged or quietly deleted.
Public surveillance cameras claimed occasional technical glitches as explanations for strange images reported by witnesses, and officials insisted these were nothing more than optical illusions or interference.
Behind the scenes, neighborhoods whispered stories of disappearances and unexplained incidents, but mainstream news dismissed them as hoaxes or viral misinformation.
The government's narrative carefully framed roamers as dangerous myths or isolated troublemakers, subtly pushing blame onto fringe groups.
Streets grew quieter as people avoided talking openly, while patrol units quietly monitored movement under the pretext of maintaining order.
Anyone who pressed too close to the truth was met with discrediting reports or vanished from public view entirely. The city felt heavier, a pulse of fear masked by the illusion of normalcy.
In a small apartment dimly lit by streetlights filtering through cracked blinds, Aria and Jules stood close, their belongings packed beside the door. "We'll meet at the train station tomorrow morning," Jules said, her voice steady but soft.
Aria reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Jules's face and leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her lips. The moment hung between them — warm, fragile, full of things left unsaid.
"I should tell you something to clear things between us," Aria whispered, her breath trembling slightly, "but not now. Not when everything is this uncertain."
Jules nodded, fingers tightening around Aria's hand, "We'll have time. Just be safe."
They shared a lingering look before stepping into the night, hearts heavy with hope and hesitation, carrying the weight of what might be, but waiting for the right moment to say it all.
The loudspeakers buzzed again. Static snapped through the air like an invisible whip. Then came the voice — calm, pre - recorded, carefully stripped of urgency.
"All residents are reminded that designated Safe Zones remain open for voluntary relocation. Please bring essential identification and belongings. Medical screening is required upon entry. Do not engage with individuals displaying signs of visual distortion, auditory hallucinations, or unprovoked aggression."
Jules didn't hear most of it. Not really. She stood in the corner of their shared apartment, one boot on, one still dangling from her hand. Her duffel bag lay half - zipped beside the bed, underwear poking out of the top like it was trying to escape.
Niko was already in motion. He moved like someone who'd made peace with panic. Backpack strapped, hoodie on, walking through rooms with quick glances and no words.
"Wait," Jules said, her voice tighter than she meant. "I haven't even packed."
"You've had an hour to pack."
"I didn't think we were leaving." She put the boot down. "You didn't even tell me until this morning."
"Yeah," Niko said, rubbing the back of his neck, "because I thought it'd blow over. The mirror stuff, the power blips, the sky tinting weird — it all felt like a glitch in the grid. Now? Now it feels like they're lying."
"They always lie."
"No. This is different." He turned toward her, face pale under the overhead light. "Have you not felt it?"
Felt what? Jules almost said, but then she paused. Because the air had felt wrong lately. She'd chalked it up to bad sleep, stress, too much coffee. The streets were quieter at night.
The pigeons didn't move the same. She kept seeing the same two people on opposite sides of the subway tunnel — same jackets, same face, same motion — like a frame loop glitching in her peripheral.
Niko zipped up his jacket. "We need to go. If Aria won't leave, we go. I'm not waiting around for some collapse that everyone's pretending isn't happening."
"She's not refusing," Jules muttered. "She just — she doesn't know what she's walking into."
"Neither do we."
"Exactly."
Niko walked to the door and grabbed the keys. "You coming?"
Jules hesitated. Then sighed. "Yeah."
They left in silence, passing half - shuttered buildings and more static - laced loudspeakers. It didn't feel like an evacuation. It felt like a slow erasure — one neighborhood at a time.
The further they walked, the more Jules realized how little was left behind. Stores still glowed from inside, untouched. No riots. No police. Just vacancy that grew louder with each block.
Halfway to the checkpoint, Jules stopped. "I have to text her."
Niko didn't slow. "Do it on the way."
Jules pulled out her phone, fingers moving fast.
Jules: Hey. They're herding people into checkpoints. I'll check the Safe Zone and let you know if it's actually "safe."
She hesitated. Then typed again.
Jules: Also… don't be mad, but I might've accidentally packed your purple sweater. You know the one that hangs just right over your hips? Totally unintentional. Definitely didn't do it just to miss your scent. 😏
Jules: Miss your lips too. Among other things.
She bit her lip and sent it. Then followed up.
Jules: Seriously though. There's talk of a new flu. It's not on the news yet but people are coughing like they swallowed glass. Stay warm. Don't let your throat get dry. And please stay out of the weird mirrors, I swear they're acting off.
She didn't know if Aria would read it immediately. She didn't know if Aria was even near a signal. But typing it helped. Let her feel connected even as the city shifted behind her like a living organism, exhaling strange air into her lungs.
Niko checked over his shoulder. "You done with your love letters?"
"Not letters. Just warnings. Flirty ones."
"You're lucky she doesn't block you."
"She likes it." Jules smiled to herself, more bitter than sweet. "I think."
The checkpoint came into view. Concrete barriers. Temporary tents. Guards in tactical gear pretending to be helpful. People coughed into sleeves. Others didn't bother. There was no screaming, no urgency.
That was what made it feel worse. Everyone acted like they should be calm. Like someone rehearsed the script and handed it out at the gate.
Niko flashed his ID and was waved through.
Jules lingered, looking at the cluster of monitors inside the tent. One was black. Another flickered. And one — one showed the main intersection near Gutter & Spine.
Her stomach twisted.
Aria was walking into frame. Alone.
She was carrying two bags, headphones in, eyes slightly narrowed like she was scanning the sidewalk. Her hair was pinned back. Her coat hung open. She looked fine. Too fine. The image lagged slightly, just enough for Jules to feel the wrongness crawl down her spine.
"Ma'am?" a guard asked.
She turned her back on the screen. "Yeah. Coming."
She followed Niko past the checkpoint and kept walking until they hit the Safe Zone perimeter, which was less 'safe' and more 'empty suburb that hadn't caught fire yet.' The government had converted an old college campus into temporary housing. Rooms were bare. The welcome kits were ziplock bags of meds and pamphlets.
Jules dropped her bag, flopped on the thin mattress, and stared at her phone again.
Still no reply from Aria.
She opened the old thread and stared at the last message Aria ever sent:
Aria: Miss you. I'll meet you at the train station tomorrow. Pink scarf, no lipstick. You'll know it's me.
Jules hadn't even remembered what year that message was from. It just sat there, soft and hopeful.
Now she typed again.
Jules: If you see something weird, text me. If you see nothing weird — text me anyway. If you're near a mirror, don't blink first. And if you're feeling lonely, imagine my hands between your thighs, slow, warm, focused. That always makes you smile, right?
Jules: I know something's coming. I don't know what. But you need to be strong for it. Stronger than me. Stronger than all of this.
She sent it before she could edit herself. Then tucked the phone under the pillow and let the exhaustion win. Niko's voice called faintly from the hallway, probably something about food or another announcement.
Jules didn't move.
In her dream, Aria was standing in the middle of a mirrorless room. The walls pulsed. The floor had veins. Aria reached for something just out of sight — something burning, something blooming — and Jules whispered her name until the sky opened like a mouth.
She woke to silence.
Not the usual quiet of morning, but something deeper. Something off. The hum of the building felt distant, like someone had turned down the background noise of reality. Even the light through her curtains was muted, like it didn't want to touch her skin.
Her phone buzzed.
MANDATORY RELOCATION NOTICE. PLEASE PROCEED TO YOUR NEAREST SAFE ZONE.
She stared at it for a second, blinking. Then another buzz came.
Jules: "Hey. I left with Niko. He dragged me out before I could even pack properly. He's acting like the world's ending or something. I don't know what's going on, but he's convinced these glitches aren't just some tech hiccup. He says it feels…off. Like something's being hidden. I'll check out the safe zone. I'll let you know if it's actually safe."
Jules: "Also… I dreamed about you. You were naked and glowing. You were touching yourself. I woke up moaning your name. Just figured you should know. 😈 Text me when you're up. And don't get sick. There's a nasty flu going around. Stay warm, drink something hot, maybe wear pants under that oversized shirt you love so much."
Aria smiled despite the ache in her chest.
Jules always did that. Threaded heat into fear like a lifeline. Like she knew Aria needed something grounding to hold on to. She stared at her screen for a long time, then started typing.
Aria: "You left without saying goodbye. Rude. Niko better be feeding you or I'm stealing your hoodie in revenge. I'm gonna check out the zone near me. Won't do anything reckless. Probably."
Aria: "And yeah. I glow naked. Obviously. You're not the first to notice, but you're the one I want noticing."
She paused, then added a second message.
Aria: "Tell Niko thanks. For looking out for you. And for trying to look out for me. I'll find you when this is over."
She finished it with a black heart. The one Jules always said looked like it belonged to her.
She got out of bed slowly, still carrying the weight of that strange dream. The room. The pulsing walls. The name on Jules' lips. It wasn't just a dream. It felt like a memory she hadn't made yet.
She layered up, pulled on leggings under her hoodie, laced up her boots. She even tied her hair back, like it would make a difference if things went wrong out there. She hesitated at the mirror. It was still webbed with cracks, but the words were gone. No messages today. Just her reflection, staring back at her like it didn't want to blink.
Down the hall, the emergency lights flickered. A cold draft met her at the stairwell, and the moment she pushed through the exit, the outside world looked… off.
Too still. Too gray.
People were moving toward the safe zone in quiet, steady lines. No one was talking. No one was panicking. They all looked half - asleep.
Soldiers stood on every corner, drones buzzing above, scanning faces and checking IDs. Aria kept walking, kept to herself. She followed the crowd but didn't feel part of it.
Then the sky did it again — pulsed.
She stopped walking. The same pulse as in her dream.
She looked up. It didn't blink. Didn't change. But she knew what she felt.
The city was holding its breath.
Her phone buzzed again.
Jules: "The zone here looks… okay. People are tense, but nothing dangerous yet. No soldiers yelling. Niko's pacing like a dad. He won't say it, but I can tell he regrets leaving without making sure you were okay."
Jules: "Also, I miss your mouth. Just putting that out there."
Aria's lips parted. She smiled, soft and aching.
Aria: "Come back and say that to my face."
She kept walking. The safe zone loomed ahead, cordoned off by chain - link fencing and white tents. It smelled like antiseptic and cold metal. She paused just outside the gates, unsure.
Something about stepping through felt permanent. Like she wouldn't be able to unstep it.
So she turned around. Just for a second.
The city looked the same — but she knew it wasn't.
And if Niko was right, they hadn't even seen what was coming yet.
And it was more than enough.
She walked with it in her chest like a steady burn — not a fire, not yet, but a warmth that didn't need to be understood. She didn't replay Jules' voice or the curve of her smirk or the imprint of her hand on her skin. It was all already inside her, sunk deep like ink. Nothing about it was clean or defined or promised, but it still felt real. Real enough to hold onto.
The streets stretched out wide and empty. Aria kept moving, the city humming its usual noise around her, but her head was too full to hear it clearly. She didn't even check if the bookstore sign was flipped or if the blinds were still down. She just moved through her space like it was a new one.
Her body was hers again. But changed.
That part made her nervous, in a quiet, shaky kind of way. Because if something had shifted inside her — if something had bloomed — it meant things couldn't go back. Not to the pretending. Not to the closed-off version of herself that kept her hands still and her wants small.
Not after that morning.
She touched her lips like they still remembered Jules' name, then looked out the window. Nothing had collapsed. No sky was falling. No thunder ripping through the city. But the silence felt wrong. Or not wrong — just stretched.
Like the calm before something.
Aria didn't believe in signs the way Selene or Niko did. She believed in instincts. In the twitch under your ribs when the air shifted. In how the ground sometimes felt too thin, even if nothing had cracked yet.
She looked at her reflection in the glass — not her face, but her bloom. The petals had curled in tighter today, no new color yet, but the core looked deeper somehow. Darker. Like it was waiting.
The city looked the same — but she knew it wasn't.
And if Niko was right, they hadn't even seen what was coming yet.
The silence after Jules's message didn't scare her.
It echoed. Made space. Let her breathe.
Aria didn't reply. Not right away. Not because she didn't want to — but because this wasn't something she could skip.
The word Bloom whispered through the crack in the mirror. It wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It bled through like a wound, raw and remembering.
Back in her apartment, the flower had bloomed again. Three now. All different — fire red, icy blue, a soft gold shimmer that almost looked like electricity. All leaning toward the mirror. As if drawn to something she couldn't see.
She stood in front of it, one palm flat against the glass. Her breath was steady but shallow, each shard reflecting a version of herself she barely recognized.
She hadn't meant to return here. Not yet. But the air had pulled her back. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or just the fact that everything still smelled like her mother — eucalyptus and cold steel and something soft, unspoken, that still clung to the pillows.
The cracked mirror shimmered faintly, veins of light crawling beneath the surface. Her heartbeat echoed it — uneven, alive.
She remembered what Niko said. About the fractures in reality. About the cities that weren't safe anymore.
And the ones that never were.
She sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, the hardwood cool beneath her. From here, the mirror didn't look cracked. It just looked old. Like it belonged to a version of the world that was long gone.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the bloom. The red petal burned warm. The blue one was cold enough to make her flinch. The golden one hummed beneath her skin like a current.
She didn't cry. Not anymore. That part had been used up.
But the ache in her chest hadn't gone anywhere.
Not since the day her mother collapsed in that kitchen.
Not since they burned the garden.
Not since she realized some things can't be fixed — only carried.
Her phone buzzed again, but she ignored it.
She wasn't ready to talk to anyone yet. Not Jules. Not Niko. Not even Elara.
The mirror flickered. Just once. A ripple that moved outward, like something breathing. Or watching.
Her breath caught. She didn't move.
And then — it stopped.
Just a crack. Just glass.
She kept telling herself that.
But something inside her knew better.
The flowers weren't just blooming. They were responding.
To her.
To the room.
To something she hadn't named yet.
She touched the red petal again. It pulsed softly. Almost like a heartbeat.
And something inside her — some old memory — pulled forward.
Her mother's voice. Not sharp. Not cold.
But tired. Quiet.
"Sometimes things break because they're growing. You know that, don't you?"
Aria had nodded, too young to understand.
Now she did.
This wasn't grief anymore.
It was evolution.
The ache didn't fade — it hardened. Into something cold and sharp and entirely hers.
She rose slowly, her hand still pressed to the glass. The blooms shimmered in the dim light, their colors more vivid than before.
The mirror was waiting.
And so was whatever was behind it.