The first clue this party is going to be different is that the room is breathing:

     In…out…

     In…out….

     Rhythmic. Audible.

     Lascivious.

     The second clue is that you show up.

     What on earth are you doing here? I mean, I don’t know you personally, so it’s none of my business. It’s a free country, I guess, and you have the right to walk into this room, which mere seconds ago was consuming oxygen at a slow, predictable rate but has since gone erratic. It’s possible that the introduction of your body to the space is enough to distort the inhalations of these four walls. Some people would refute this theory, however, claiming you’re smaller than they thought you’d be. Well to me you’re bigger. Your presence is mammoth. Quiet as you are, you dominate the room—control its very outbreaths. No one could ever ignore you, least of all me, with my fizzing nerves and my need to be filled.

     I try to focus on the vapid ramblings of my best frenemy, Megan. But she keeps glancing at you. And is it just me, or is she edging closer to you? Are we circling, ever so slowly, into your orbit? Closer and closer, despite me telling her I feel like I’m suffocating.

     “Will you relax?” she hisses. “Just fucking relax.”

     Chastised, I put my hand on the wall and stare down at my shoes. It isn’t long before I’m looking at your shoes. I swear they’re sinking into the floor, per the tonnage of your molecular density. My body tilts toward you.

     “Jesus,” I say, righting myself.

     I press my hand more firmly into the wall, which takes on an amorphous quality, its particles mingling with mine. Some boundary inside me has been breached. I let my gaze fan out across the wall. Your hand’s on it too, and somehow I know: The thing that’s allowing me to be violated is you. I yank my hand back and gaze into the darkness of my drink, the staggered glinting of ice like stars being blown apart then pulled back together.

     Has someone drugged me?

     How can this random party be the site of such cosmic significance—the breath of the universe pulsing through the walls and into my body, corkscrewing around my heart, and roiling hotly in the bowl of my pelvis?

     The floor begins to throb.

     I tell Megan we need to get out of here. She pretends not to hear me. I glare at her, unnoticed.

     I leave.

     I have to.

     Your gravitational pull is harrowing.

*

I am safe in the sun, my face bathed in warmth and my lungs performing at their own steady cadence.

     Until I get a text from an unknown number: hey we were at the same party last night but you left early

    For a split second, I don’t know if it’s you. But then the sky flashes: A searing electromagnetic threat. An assertion that I have not escaped you.

     The blue vastness dims until stars become visible. One of them goes nova before my very eyes. I gasp and look at the people around me. They go about their business, oblivious to the white-blue explosion overhead. Something riotous vibrates up my legs and rocks my sacrum.

     It’s you causing all this. I don’t know how, but it’s you. And I can’t help but wonder…do you know it’s you?

     Actually, I have another question: How did you get my phone number?

     Oh.

     Megan.

     That treacherous bitch.

   Another seismic pulse shudders my pelvis. I wobble to a tree for support. The thing is breathing—of course it is—expanding and contracting luridly. It terrifies me, but I keep one arm wrapped around it. Trembling, I block your number.

    The sky is a periwinkle splendor once more, the tree bark beneath my fingertips blessedly unmoving. I chuckle with tentative relief.

    But deep down inside, I know this isn’t over. You’ll find a way to get at me again. Whether by intergalactic collision or the violent warping of spacetime, by the humanization of a wall or a floor or a tree, or by the panting of a thing that has neither lungs nor mouth…you’ll find me.

    Tears trickle down my face and seep into the crease between my lips. Though I keep my mouth clamped shut, I can still taste the salt of my despair. And it makes me cry even harder.

***

Sophie is a writer of edgy words, a wearer of Converse shoes, and a shipper of Oxford commas. Her work has been featured by Litro UK, Isele Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, Lumiere Review, Ellipsis Zine, Popshot Quarterly, Ink Sweat & Tears, Pigeon Review, Black Spot Books, and other publications. She was nominated for a 2019 Pushcart and loves pushing carts, buttons, and envelopes. Tweets @SophieKearing.