The afternoon sun spilled through the campus, warm against the stone walkways. Freddie walked without any rush, letting the sound of his boots on the cobblestones fill the space around him. Class was over, but the day still had its quiet momentum, the hum of students moving between lectures a gentle background.
Near a quieter corner of the academic wing, he noticed a figure leaning against the wall by a staircase. A faint flick of fur caught the light. Slim, graceful, with soft, golden-tipped fur and almond-shaped eyes that glimmered like amber—she studied him with a calm, measured look.
"Lost, or wandering intentionally?" she asked, her voice smooth, careful.
Freddie hesitated, then shook his head. "Neither. Just... walking."
The feline—Katherine, as she would soon introduce herself—pushed herself off the wall, tail swishing behind her. "Good. I don't like people who just get in the way." She gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Name's Katherine."
"Freddie," he replied, keeping his tone even. "Freddie Bearlyn."
"Bearlyn," she echoed thoughtfully. "Huh. Fits. Valeris—last name." Her gaze lingered a moment, then she gestured toward the benches lining the hall. "Sit, if you're going to stand there staring at your shoes."
Freddie offered a faint smile and moved to a bench. Katherine perched on the edge of another, crossing one leg over the other with feline elegance. Silence settled, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It had a measured quality, as if the world around them had slowed just a fraction.
"You're quiet," Katherine said after a moment. "Not in a bad way. Just... noticing."
"Observation helps, as some people say." Freddie replied softly. "First day—lots to notice."
Katherine nodded once. "Fair enough. I do the same." She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Most of the people who notice you won't matter. The ones who do... will make it interesting."
Freddie glanced at her, noting the subtle sharpness behind her words. "Interesting how?"
"That's for you to find out," she said, flicking her tail and standing. "I've got to head out soon. Classes, errands, the usual 'chaos' as my one friend calls."
Before Freddie could respond, a familiar voice cut through the hallway:
"Katherine! Freddie!"
Casey appeared, wings folded neatly, tail flicking as he leaned casually against the wall. A wide grin spread across his face. "Well, if it isn't the quiet bear and the mysterious cat."
Katherine's lips curved in a small smile, unamused but not unfriendly. "Casey."
Casey glanced at Freddie, then back at Katherine. "You two know each other?"
Katherine shrugged lightly. "Not really. Just met—pretty much."
Casey laughed. "Of course. Well, we're going to grab a bite. Diner down the street—best fries, worst diet plans. You in, Bearlyn?"
Freddie hesitated a fraction, then nodded. "Sure."
"Excellent." Casey clapped his hands once. "Lead the way, Katherine."
The three of them walked through the campus streets, the chatter of students and distant bicycle bells filling the air. Katherine kept pace effortlessly, glancing at signs, noting small details without breaking stride. Casey jabbered endlessly about the best booths in the diner, past misadventures with classes, and the occasional absurd rumor about the campus—his wings occasionally brushing walls, tail flicking with emphasis.
At the diner, they squeezed into a small booth by the window. The smell of fried food and fresh coffee enveloped them. Katherine ordered quickly, crisp and precise, while Freddie took a moment to glance at the menu. Casey leaned back, fingers drumming on the table, eyes glinting with amusement.
"So, Bearlyn," he said, leaning forward slightly, "tell me one thing—what's your first impression of this madhouse?"
Freddie shrugged, hands folded in front of him. "It's... bigger than I expected. Lots of movement."
Katherine's tail twitched. "Always to point out."
"Yes," Freddie said quietly. "And noticing the people around you."
Casey laughed. "Ah, see? You two already get along. You can sense the currents. That's a rare skill."
The conversation meandered, the diner bustling around them. Casey leaned back, smirking. "So, Katherine, you really walked into a quantum mechanics lecture by mistake?"
Katherine flicked her tail, unimpressed. "Yes. And yes, the professor gave me that look—the one that could curdle milk. I thought I'd melt into the floor."
Freddie chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Sounds terrifying. But I imagine you handled it better than most."
"Handled it?" Katherine arched an eyebrow. "I survived. That's all. Barely."
Casey leaned in, eyes sparkling. "Come on, you've got to tell me exactly what you said when he asked a question."
"I said, 'I... uh... believe the solution involves—'" Katherine paused, as if reliving the cringe. "I blanked. Completely. Then smiled. Awkwardly."
Casey gasped dramatically, slapping his hand over his chest. "Oh no! Did the entire lecture witness your defeat?"
Freddie laughed softly, the sound low but genuine. "I can imagine it. You, smiling through terror—it's impressive."
Katherine's ears twitched slightly. "I wasn't impressed."
Casey leaned back, grinning at both of them. "Bearlyn, you should have seen it. That smile alone deserves a medal."
Freddie smirked faintly. "I'll take your word for it."
Casey jabbed him playfully in the side. "Don't just sit there, nodding! I need witnesses for my dramatic reenactments."
Katherine rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "Go on, then. Pretend you're the heroic professor."
Casey straightened, clearing his throat. "Ahem! Miss Valeris, your... enthusiasm is noted... and your bravery... begrudgingly admired!" He gestured wildly with his claws. "And you, Bearlyn, merely watch in awe!"
Freddie chuckled again. "I... wasn't that impressed."
Katherine let out a quiet laugh, tail flicking once. "I'd say that's about right."
Their food arrived then, warm and aromatic—fries, sizzling burgers, and a simple salad for Katherine. Katherine ate with careful precision, Casey devoured his burger with gusto, and Freddie nibbled quietly, letting the conversation carry the moment.
"So, Bearlyn," Casey said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, grinning, "first impressions? College so far—bearable?"
Freddie shrugged lightly. "It's... lively. Full of energy."
Katherine adds,"And full of patterns to notice."
"Exactly," Freddie said softly. "People move in ways that tell you things if you pay attention."
Casey laughed, leaning back. "Ah, see? You two already click. You can sense the flow of things around you—that's rare. Most people just drift."
Katherine tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Most don't notice until it's too late."
Casey jabbed his thumb toward her. "Yes! Bearlyn, you've got a dangerous companion here—be careful of this pussy cat."
Freddie couldn't help a small smile. "Unnecessary, and dangerous? In what way?"
"Selective," Katherine said simply, meeting his eyes. "Most won't matter. The ones who do... make a difference."
Casey waved a hand theatrically. "Ooh, ominous. Very 'college drama, but make it elegant Katie' herself."
Freddie chuckled, leaning back. "Sounds about right."
The three lingered over their meals, the conversation flowing naturally—Casey teasing, Katherine precise but willing to play along, and Freddie responding when it fit. The diner became a soft backdrop: the hiss of the brewing machine, clatter of plates, and the murmur of other patrons.
Katherine finally glanced at her watch. "Train soon. Bearlyn, I'm assuming you take the train—"
Casey grinned, interrupting. "Perfect excuse for me to escort you m'lad and m'lady. Diner crew sticks together, right?"
Freddie smiled faintly. "Thanks, and yes, I do."
They finished their meals, chatting about small victories in classes, absurd campus rumors, and mundane details of college life. Outside, the sun had dropped lower, stretching long shadows across the streets.
Walking toward the train, Katherine moved with poise, eyes scanning the tracks ahead. Casey jabbed Freddie lightly in the side. "Keep up, Bearlyn. Don't let the cat leave you behind."
Freddie chuckled softly. "I'll try."
The train ride passed in quiet comfort. Casey whispered stories about a lecture gone hilariously wrong, Katherine commented lightly on the passing scenery, and Freddie listened, letting the words wash over him. Companionship without expectation—it was enough.
At his stop, the trio walked him to the platform edge.
"Here we part ways," Katherine said, calm and measured. "Safe travels, Bearlyn."
Casey grinned. "Try not to get lost again."
Freddie nodded. "I won't. Thanks."
He watched them leave, then turned toward his apartment. The evening streets were soft beneath his steps, quiet and welcoming.
Freddie unlocked his apartment door, the familiar click echoing softly in the quiet hall. He slipped inside, the cool air greeting him, and set his bag down by the door. For a moment, he just stood there, letting the calm of the space settle over him. The apartment smelled faintly of the cleaning spray he'd used earlier in the week, mixed with the lingering warmth of the radiator.
He moved through his routine methodically—shedding his jacket, setting his shoes neatly by the door, running a hand through his fur, brushing his teeth, washing up. Each movement felt grounding, a small reassurance after the day of new faces, laughter, and gentle chaos. It was almost comforting to follow the motions, to feel control over something, even if it was mundane.
As he ascended the stairs, his bathroom came into view, just around the corner. He stepped inside, letting the quiet settle, and began to strip off his clothes, the familiar rhythm of his nightly routine offering a soft sense of normalcy.
Warm water cascaded over him as he stepped into the shower, the steady rhythm of droplets masking the quiet hum of the apartment. He let himself relax, muscles easing, thoughts drifting over the day's events—the train ride, the diner, the soft laughter of Casey and Katherine, the way the world had felt a little less imposing with them nearby. It was a small comfort, simple and grounding, and for a moment, he let the day's tension slip away entirely.
As Freddie was done showering, he turned off the water, letting the last few droplets slide down his fur. He stepped out carefully, wrapping a towel around himself, and moved to the mirror. Steam clung to the glass, curling softly at the edges, and he wiped a small patch with his hand. His reflection stared back—cyan eyes calm, yellow fur damp and tousled, the faint traces of the day lingering in his posture. He took a slow breath, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat, the steady pulse of his own presence grounding him after the swirl of the afternoon.
Freddie begins to look at the mirror—deeply—didn't look away for one moment. He stood there longer than he meant to, towel hanging loose around his waist, studying his reflection in silence. His eyes traced over familiar lines—his shoulders, the way his fur caught the light, the shape of himself that never quite matched anyone else's. He shifted his weight, watching the movement echo back at him, searching for something he couldn't name. The room felt quieter the longer he stared, the air heavier, as if the mirror were holding its breath with him.
The silence pressed in until it started to ring, a low, hollow hum crawling into his ears. Freddie's gaze stayed locked on the mirror, but his thoughts drifted inward, looping and circling. This is me, he told himself—not with confidence, not with doubt, just fact. He thought about how people looked at him, how some lingered and others glanced away, how being different was something you learned to carry rather than solve. The longer he stood there, the more the room seemed to fade, leaving only his reflection and the quiet weight of his own thoughts staring back at him.
A slight shudder ran through him, barely noticeable, but enough to break the spell. Freddie blinked, breath catching as the ringing silence snapped apart. The bathroom came back into focus—the light overhead, the counter, the faint drip of the faucet. He exhaled slowly, shoulders easing as he looked away from the mirror, aware again of where he was and the simple fact of standing there, awake and present.
He rested both hands on the edge of the sink, grounding himself in the cool porcelain. The feeling steadied him, anchoring his thoughts before they could drift too far inward again. Whatever that moment had been—too much quiet, too much reflection—it passed. Freddie straightened, turned off the light, and stepped away from the mirror, letting the darkness of the hallway reclaim the space behind him as he moved toward his room.
Freddie shook the remaining daze into himself, as if to clear the feeling completely, and stood. The moment passed. Whatever spiral he'd slipped into loosened its grip, leaving only fatigue behind. He finished up quickly—lights dimmed, curtains pulled halfway closed—then slipped beneath the covers.
The apartment settled around him, familiar and quiet. The hum of the radiator, the distant murmur of the city outside, all blending into something steady and unremarkable. Freddie got into his bed, turned onto his side, eyes closing without much resistance.
Sleep took him before he could think too hard about anything else.
...
Sleep took him faster than he expected.
At first, it was ordinary—darkness folding in, thoughts loosening their grip, the quiet hum of the apartment fading into nothing. His breathing evened out. The night slipped away.
Then the dream began.
Freddie stood somewhere unfamiliar. There was no ground beneath his feet, yet he wasn't falling. The space around him stretched endlessly, dim and colorless, like a place unfinished. No walls. No sky. Just distance.
He tried to move.
The moment he did, the air seemed to shift, rippling as though something else had noticed him. Not a sound—no voice, no footsteps—but a pressure, subtle and deliberate. Like being watched without eyes.
Freddie turned.
Nothing was there.
But the feeling remained.
He became aware of himself in a way that felt wrong—not his body, but his outline, as if the space around him knew his shape better than he did. The darkness pulled closer, bending, gathering, mimicking the way he stood.
A silhouette formed.
Not fully. Not clearly. Just enough.
It moved when he moved.
Stopped when he stopped.
Understanding crept in slowly, cold and unwelcome.
This wasn't a chase.
It wasn't an attack.
It was recognition.
The dream tightened, the space growing heavier, closer—then the shadow jumped into him—
—and Freddie woke with a sharp breath, heart pounding once before settling into silence.
The room was dark. Still.
Too still.
The apartment hadn't changed. No sounds from outside. No creak of pipes. No hum from the radiator. The silence pressed in so evenly it almost rang in his ears.
He swallowed and shifted slightly.
That's when he noticed it.
On the far wall—where moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains—his shadow stretched longer than it should have. The angle was wrong. The light hadn't moved, but the shape had.
Freddie froze.
The shadow stood upright—forming, shoulders squared the way he stood when he was thinking too hard. Its head tilted—just barely—mirroring the position his own had settled into against the pillow.
He didn't move.
Neither did it.
His breath slowed, shallow and careful. The longer he watched, the more precise it became. Not a blur. Not a trick of light. The outline was unmistakable. His ears. His posture. His silhouette down to the smallest curve.
A reflection without a mirror.
"This is a dream," he thought—but the thought felt thin, unconvincing.
Slowly, deliberately, Freddie raised one hand.
The shadow did the same.
Not a fraction of a second late.
Not early.
Perfectly.
His pulse thudded once, hard. The room felt smaller now, as if the walls were leaning in to listen. Whatever this was, it wasn't reaching for him. It wasn't threatening.
It was waiting.
Freddie lowered his hand.
The shadow followed.
He exhaled, shaky, and turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut. When he looked again—
The wall was empty.
Just moonlight. Just plaster. Just his room.
But the feeling didn't leave.
Freddie pulled the blanket higher and lay there until his breathing evened out again, telling himself it was exhaustion. Stress. A bad dream bleeding into wakefulness.
Still...
sleep didn't come back easily.
And somewhere in the quiet, something remained very aware that he had noticed it.
Freddie stayed still for a while after that. Long enough for the initial spike of panic to dull into something heavier, more uncertain. His heartbeat slowed. The room settled back into itself. Moonlight crept across the floor the same way it always did.
Carefully, he looked around.
At first, he thought nothing had changed.
Then he saw it.
The shadow sat beside the bed.
Not on the wall this time. Not stretched or distorted. It was there, settled on the edge of the mattress like a person might sit—elbows resting loosely on its knees, posture relaxed. Too relaxed.
Freddie's breath caught.
It had shape now. Depth. The outline of his body, solid and unmistakable, as if the darkness itself had decided to borrow his form. Its head was tilted slightly, mirroring the way he tended to sit when lost in thought.
It wasn't moving.
It was waiting.
Freddie didn't scream. The sound died before it could even form. His body felt locked in place, every instinct telling him to run while his mind struggled to understand how.
The shadow shifted first.
Just a small movement—its head lifting, its attention settling fully on him.
Then it spoke.
"Relax."
The voice was his.
Not exactly—but close enough to make his chest tighten. Same cadence. Same rhythm. Just lower. Rougher. Like his own voice dragged through something cold and heavy before being let loose.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
Freddie swallowed hard. "Then why are you here?"
The shadow's mouth curved—not quite a smile. "Because... you finally noticed."
It leaned back slightly, resting one hand against the mattress. The bed didn't dip. That somehow made it worse.
"You've felt me before," it continued, voice steady. "In quiet moments. In the pauses you don't fill. I've been there longer than you think."
Freddie forced himself to sit up, back pressed against the headboard. His eyes never left it. "You're... not real."
The shadow regarded him for a moment. Then, softly, "Does that matter?"
The question hung in the air between them.
"I don't want anything from you," it added, almost gently. "Not yet. I just wanted you to see me. To understand I exist."
Freddie's hands clenched in the sheets. "Understand what?"
The shadow leaned closer—not threatening, not invading, just close enough that its presence felt heavier.
"That you're not as alone as you think."
Silence followed. Thick. Charged.
"I've been with you... for a long... long time."
Freddie's pulse thudded in his ears, but beneath the fear, something else stirred—recognition. Not comfort. Not trust.
Awareness.
The shadow straightened again, easing back into stillness. "You should sleep," it said. "Tomorrow will matter, you'll see."
"And you?" Freddie asked quietly.
For the first time, the shadow hesitated.
"I'll be here," it said. "Whether you see me or not."
The light shifted. Just slightly.
And the space beside the bed was empty again.
Freddie stayed awake long after, staring at the place it had been, the words echoing softly in his mind. When sleep finally took him, it was lighter this time—uneasy, but not empty.
Something had crossed a line.
And nothing felt the same anymore.