She couldn’t breathe just yet.

From the quiet car ride to the equally still lounging in the living room, Cosima smothered herself with her rapid thoughts.

The feeling wasn’t new; it was another standard of the shelf life, even present in the far-flung peace that existed prior. Always on its toes, her mind bustled with designs and intrigues that would iron out a path to many goals. She knew she was always on top of things and wasn’t fond of dawdling off the roadside—steering away from paths was never for her.

“It feels weird having animals in our blood.” Cosima vocalized the detour that she sensed Sinjin felt they had taken. Her sentence hung in the air like the plague, watching the man sitting at the end of the sofa stoop further over the glowing tablet perched in his lap. The mechanical pencil he bore braked mid-rampage, loitering around the screen as its tapping rhythm with the clomping clock and the outside bellows of vehicles died out. He looked as if he’d collapsed then and there; his sore eyes sank in sync with his head.

Then he stopped.

Cosima magnified her gaze, a keen curiosity in her lover’s slump. Her dry lips flapped open, only mustering a wordless wisp of wind before scrunching herself into the armrest’s crook—back into her husk. She then heard Sinjin suck in the icy air, the man lifting his head towards the roof, darting his stockpiled exhaustion through a puff.

Tension.

“Yep.” He bloated his cheeks and scratched his neck, slouching further. He shot out another stifled breath. “Yep.”

The tension remained. Cosima leaned against the sofa with a drought of things to say, while Sinjin plunged back into his digital art with a drought of belief. Then there was silence, and it drowned the lady further.

Minutes slogged by, and the momentum of the conversation remained nonexistent.

Silence.

The tick of the clock.

The tap of a pen.

Tick.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Tick.

Tap.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Cosima ticked, surfacing the ocean in her mind. She tapped her fingers on the leather, noticing the absence of one sound that accentuated the deafening silence. Her purple face turned to Sinjin, watching him mindlessly circle his mechanical pencil in one of the sofa’s buttons. She noticed the tablet grow dim, showing her that it had been experiencing inactivity.

He was staring into space again. Lost and blank—it was as if he were attempting to look deep into something. Briskly reassuring herself that he was just glowering at the wall, Cosima steeled herself as she scooched across the sofa. It always felt like a chore, a sense of duty she had never gotten the kick out of for a long time. But not once did Cosima see it as a burden. Because when she’d tap on his shoulder, he’d pop out of his stupor and land endearing eyes on her and nothing else in the room. The eyes were strained this time, but she still felt her heart flutter as she saw a semblance of affection in his confused look.

She’d then shift her head away from his line of sight as she remembered what he was most likely perturbed about.

“Eye contact.” He’d always surprise her with that. He’d put a palm to her face and tilt it so they were level.

“Yeah.” She could say no more; there was no reason to.

They’d stay in this position for countless moments and let the world around them roll on.

Comfort.

“I can’t draw hands.”

He’d move first every time and be the one to lead her along with him.

Cosima idled. But she strung on Sinjin’s random, contrite confession and followed it, managing the littlest smile her chapped cheekbones could pull off. There was still shame behind it; they both found it hard to swallow the reality of the situation.

“I know, Sin—”

“Eh? Not even going to lift me up?”

She didn’t reply, much to Sinjin’s displeasure. He noticed her attempt to smile, cocking his hairless brows up as he whistled a faint breath.

“I’ll just keep suffering”—he burrowed his head in the palm that held his pencil, cloaking the upturning of his lips—”in hand hell.” Sinjin released himself from his secrecy and coughed a chuckle, swiftly placing his devices onto the table and clipping to his feet. He weaselled out of his awkwardness and teetered towards the kitchen square of the room. “Imma eat a fricking Hot Pocket.”

Cosima watched him pull the freezer door, yanking out a red box from the top shelves. With his back turned to her, he worked on tearing out two wrapped pastries as soon as he placed the box on the kitchen island.

All she could do was stay still and wait.

“What’s the plan?”

She jerked out of thought, hearing his solemn voice deliver a question she thought he wouldn’t ask that night. Sinjin motioned over to a cabinet, retrieving a dish; his face still looked away from her.

“I know you.” Sinjin placed the pepperoni treats on the plate. “You set your mind to something, and you kinda just… never stop thinking about it.” He opened the microwave and slid the plate in, closing the small door before tapping the buttons slowly. Indecisiveness swayed in his gaze. “You have lots to say, so let’s talk it out.” His thumb pushed the ‘Start’ button, the inside of the microwave flashing orange and rotating the dish. It was heating up.

“After all, it was your choice.”

A pang of guilt riddled Cosima as Sinjin made his stone-faced look apparent. He leaned against the island, subconsciously rapping his fingers on the surface as the microwave timer ticked.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

She let another wordless gasp fall from her lips, clutching her hoodie. Cosima knew he wasn’t wrong. Between the two, she believed she was more ready to take on the burden of harmonization.

Right now, they paddled in hot, uncharted waters. But as much as she wanted to sink and not confront the pressure, they had ventured into something irreparable. So she, unfortunately, realized she had to bear the brunt of her decision.

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At least this time, it’s something she controlled.

Silence.

“I’m… sorry—”

“No—wait… no.”

She saw Sinjin pinch the bridge of his nose sharply, his skin noticeably tensing. He rustled some incoherent swears before admitting, “I’m also at fault here—my brain’s a mess, uh… here.”

“No, it’s... fine—don’t beat yourself over it—”

“No. Please.”

They fell into the uncomfortable silence again.

Cosima knew he was right: she had a lot to say. She couldn’t fully decipher why it was difficult to give her thoughts, but she was attentive enough to sense Sinjin’s agitation, as common as it was. Would touching upon the scorned subject of harmonization fuel his frustration further? Would touching upon the scorned subject of harmonization make him snap?

Then the hardest poison of a question appeared, ever so hard to swallow.

Would touching upon the scorned subject of harmonization force him away from her?

It felt like it was already happening because Sinjin kept aloof.

The bilious cough she had been fighting for a while appeared as a tool at that very moment.

But would that be enough to shift his attention to her?

I need to tell him.

But she’d still try the cough because if there was anything she wanted more, it was for him to care.

However, as if the gods wished to curse her again, the microwave beeped repeatedly, and Sinjin broke out of his trance to attend to the food. It stopped heating up.

She had to break out of her trance too.

“First thing—” She broke into a coughing fit, hurling noxious phlegm into her shaking hand. She could vaguely hear the quick opening of the fridge, and despite the sting in her throat, there was vivid elation in her faltering heart. She took hold of the tissues that waved over her, beginning to clean her palms as Sinjin held a water bottle to her lips. With much-welcomed assistance, she sipped some of the cold water.

Luckily, he was still here.

“Thank”—she coughed her last—”you.”

“More water?”

“No, I’m fine—”

“Let’s wash your hands.” Sinjin pinched the tissues from her weak grip and helped her to her feet. Her legs shook, but she steadied herself by latching to his sweater. He guided her across the room towards the kitchen sink.

“I want to say something,” she said hoarsely.

They reached the sink, with Sinjin flipping on the tap and letting the water gush.

“You don’t have to declare it—”

“We both should realize that doing all this harmonization stuff doesn’t really guarantee ourselves a cure,” she explained, catching the cold water in her hands, same for his attention. “The cure randomly appears in living things; it’s rare as hell. However, most of the time at least, plants that do have a cure are the only living things that stay still and can’t run away—”

“That’s what I hate.” He pulled her hands away from the water and applied dish soap to them with a nearby bottle. “The culture is just some kinda… adrenaline rush—”

“Yes—”

“—because realistically, it’s all hunt with no game.”

She scrubbed her hands together, the foam unable to magic the purple skin away. She wished she could lose that long-dissipated hope.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

She doused her hands again, washing the foam off.

“Humans who have the cure are obviously out of the question.”

She suddenly felt as if she were washing blood away. Why it felt that way is what she couldn’t grasp at that second.

She shivered against him.

Sinjin switched off the tap.

“You ok?” He scrambled for the towel on the rack and helped dry her arid hands. “Was the water—”

“I’m fine, Sin— I’m fine,” she interjected quickly, drawing breath and painting the savagery in her head. “They do a good job at making fusion with other humans unattractive by labelling it as cannabilism… but still, it’s uncomfortable to think about—”

“And that’s why we won’t do it.” Sinjin took her away from the sink. She was internally grateful for being further away from the gory imagery she had thought up.

“Yeah—”

“We’re technically following the masses here… But let’s swear that we’re never passing the limit that makes this even more immoral than it must be.”

Cosima didn’t need to take a gander to know that his face had disgust written on it. Helped to the sofa, she looked down at her knees, reluctant to meet the look that frightened her. It was one of those rare, despicable moments where she was glad not to have eyes. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t give stylized looks. She couldn’t let her hazel eyes shine anymore, most importantly.

But she could still see.

That look on his face was burnt into her mind, and just imagining the emotion directed towards her flipped a switch.

She had to keep him there; she couldn’t lose him.

“Of course, we won’t; don’t say something like that,” she bashed, anticipating the change in his demeanor. “We gotta be rational—”

“Right.” Sinjin sucked in a breath, loosening the creases on his face. He began pacing around the carpet. “We’ll take a more pacifistic route. No squabbles and all that—”

“Yep—oh, are you… uh, going to—”

“I can’t.” Cosima expected that. “Got a neurologist appointment at noon… uh, wait—”

Sinjin dug into his pockets to retrieve his phone, tapping furiously at it and showing her the screen. It displayed the Calendar app and an appointment listed on the 21st of October.

“Yep. Tomorrow.” Sinjin clicked the side of his phone, turning it off. “What about you? I can drive you—”

“I’ll go with you.” She switched on fast, shocking him.

He blinked at the sudden response.

“But I’d imagine you’d go, as you were pretty ready to—”

“No, uh… We can go after the appointment, right?”

His grip tensed around his phone. Then they eased without any ease; there was hesitation.

“I suppose so—Tanairy will be there, no?”

Her body tensed. They didn’t ease; there was hesitation.

“Yes… she will—”

“I could drive you then—”

“No—”

“—if you’re worried about—”

“No—”

“—doing it alone—”

“I want to do it with you.” Cosima leaned forward to emphasize the point. She didn’t know why it was so confusing for him to understand. “We’re a team, idiot—”

“And that’s why I’m going to a brain scientist tomorrow,” Sinjin quipped quickly, breaking into a rumble of laughter. It had the huskiness that she always loved, and without her control, despite how dried-out her voice was, she giggled. It almost felt like there were just them in the world; nothing else mattered. Radiation, harmonization, losses—they forgot it all as they enjoyed one another’s laugh regardless of goofiness.

It was something normal—some breathing room.

Cosima was the first to stop. She was always the first to let sobriety take her in these golden moments. Sinjin noticed, always keeping her feelings in mind. He rubbed his forehead with the phone in his hand, attempting to keep the light in his smile.

“You can come with me to the appointment, but if you want… we’ll go to crazy Theta after.” He noticed her look up from her knees, satisfied by the attempt at maintaining contact. “Fine?”

“They shouldn’t be done too early, so yeah, that’s fine,” she replied, making sure to account for her boyfriend’s discomfort. “Theta seems to know what he’s doing, so—”

“He’s still a stranger, all things considered.”

Same as Tanairy, Sin.

She shook the thought away.

“True, but”—Cosima scratched her neck—”we gotta take what we can get and work with it—”

“Yep—”

“We can’t go back.”

They let a silence draw between them before Sinjin sighed.

“I’ll continue praying that the cure appears in you naturally,” he said. “That right there is the best option we could ask for.”

His phone vibrated in tandem with hers, which sat at the corner of the table. He pressed on his screen, and a notification appeared. He murmured under his breath, “WhatsApp.”

“What is it?” She fixated on her phone, her fingers itching to grab it.

“It’s convenient timing because we just got added to a group called Theta’s Ristretto Ghetto?” Sinjin tried, confusion on his face. He whispered, “Hogwash name—”

“Can I check it, Sin?”

Sinjin whipped around to her and gave her a stern look despite the lack of eyebrows.

“Just WhatsApp—”

“I know—”

“Just WhatsApp—”

“Yes, yes, geez—”

“WhatsApp.”

Sinjin held his gaze for a few more seconds.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

She grabbed her phone, feeling his eyes linger on her before he shifted to his phone.

They both went to the first block of text they saw upon entering the virtual space, from the added contact of Theta, that read: ‘ello to the three that I met earlier today! Welcome to the ghetto, full of people from colleagues, students I taught at my professor job, and a nagging wife. We’re all a bunch of crackheads here, and no, you will not be able to escape from this hell. enjoy ur stay lovelies <3 I’ll fill y’all in on many things to do with harmonization and the other things we do on this chat.

“What—”

“God Almighty—”

“Sin, there are 34 members in this chat—”

“I’m turning my fricking notifs off—”

Their phones then began vibrating constantly. Endless spills of messages passed by. Different contacts. Different names. Different colors. Different emojis. Different emoticons. Different message lengths. Different grammar.

All this came from the oddballs in this group chat that greeted them in many ways. It felt like information overload, as the messages never seemed to end.

“What the hell—”

“What is even going on?”

A message from Theta caught their eye again, but most of the block was a list. It read:

Here is our list (Top 8) of criminals that we are most interested in. I call them the Gallon, the far-gone 8. Felons of many degrees that have physical appearances that have been altered SO much due to the stresses of Harmonization culture. As a passtime, we look into the news to see if these criminals will soon face justice for their actions.

The couple looked at each other as they saw the last part of the message:

We hope to see these criminals dead, especially the last two, who as we know up-to-date, hold a cure:

*Saint Sabin

*Tawny Tonner (Dingus)

*Oswald Oz (possible exception)

*Pina Pica

*Spanner Springer

*Itsy

*Whatsit (‘Skid Row Berserker’)

*Newton Neuville

They couldn’t breathe just yet.