Episode:8
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JOANNE FATE – EPISODE 8
The Sound of Something Waiting
Joanne did not reply to the message.
She placed the phone back on her desk and covered it with a notebook, as if paper could erase intention. Her hands were steady. That unsettled her more than panic would have.
She went to class.
She took notes.
She answered a question when the lecturer called her name, her voice even, her answer correct. A few people turned to look at her with approval. She nodded politely and sat back down.
Inside her chest, something pressed quietly against her ribs.
Comedy found her in inconvenient places.
Later that afternoon, she walked straight into a glass door she had passed a hundred times before. The impact was light but embarrassing. A few students gasped. Someone laughed. Joanne laughed too, harder than necessary, waving it off like it was part of a routine.
“New invisible wall?” someone joked.
“Campus upgrade,” Joanne replied without missing a beat.
The laughter followed her down the hall.
Her heart did not.
The fantasy began to leak into her waking hours.
As she sat in the library, she saw reflections where there should have been shadows. People she did not know looked briefly like people she once did. Voices blended. Time bent in strange, subtle ways.
Once, she swore she heard her name spoken softly from behind her. She turned.
No one.
She told herself she was tired.
She told herself a lot of things.
Mira confronted her that evening.
Not dramatically. Mira never did things dramatically. She leaned against the desk, arms folded, eyes steady.
“You’re disappearing,” Mira said.
Joanne scoffed lightly. “I’m right here.”
“Physically,” Mira replied. “Emotionally, you’re on airplane mode.”
Joanne looked away. “I just need space.”
“You always need space when something matters.”
That landed.
Joanne closed her eyes briefly. “Please don’t push.”
Mira softened. “I’m not pushing. I’m standing.”
Joanne swallowed. She nodded once, a silent thank you mixed with quiet resistance.
The city grew smaller the longer Joanne stayed inside herself.
Every corner felt familiar in a way that unsettled her. Every laugh sounded borrowed. Every calm moment felt temporary.
The broken bond began to show itself in pieces.
A song playing somewhere it should not be.
A smell that pulled her backward.
A phrase she had not heard in years suddenly spoken by a stranger.
She stopped sleeping properly.
When she did sleep, the dreams grew clearer.
In one, she sat across from the person she had not named aloud since leaving home. They did not speak. They just watched her, eyes filled with something unreadable.
When she woke, her pillow was damp, and she laughed at the absurdity of crying over someone she had already survived.
Survival did not mean finished.
The message came again.
This time, it asked a question.
It asked if she was okay.
Joanne stared at the words for a long time.
Comedy whispered cruelly in her ear. Of course they asked that. Of course the timing was impeccable. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.
She typed three different replies.
She deleted all of them.
She turned the phone off.
Her lecturers noticed a shift.
“You seem distracted,” one said gently.
Joanne smiled. “Just thinking ahead.”
That was not a lie. She was thinking ahead to a future that suddenly felt closer to the past than she liked.
The dramatic moment did not arrive with sound.
It arrived with sight.
Joanne saw them on campus.
Not close. Not directly.
Across the courtyard, near the vending machines she avoided on purpose.
They were older than her memory held. Or maybe she was older now, and the comparison made everything strange.
They laughed at something on their phone.
That laugh used to belong to her.
Her body reacted before thought could intervene. Heat rushed to her face. Her chest tightened. Her feet refused to move.
The illusion of peace did not shatter.
It folded.
Joanne turned away calmly and walked in the opposite direction, each step deliberate. She did not run. She did not look back.
Her hands shook only when she reached her room.
Mira was there.
One look at Joanne’s face and the joking vanished.
“What happened?”
Joanne sat on her bed slowly, like gravity had increased.
“They’re here,” she said.
Mira did not ask who.
She sat beside her and waited.
“I don’t want to do this,” Joanne continued. “I don’t want explanations. I don’t want closure. I don’t want to be brave again.”
Her voice cracked, not loudly, but honestly.
Mira placed a hand over hers. “Then don’t.”
Joanne shook her head. “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Mira said. “But you’re allowed to want peace.”
Joanne laughed weakly. “Peace is a liar.”
“No,” Mira replied softly. “Peace is fragile.”
That stayed with her.
Fantasy took over that night.
Joanne imagined standing in front of the person from her past, not as confrontation, but as observation. She imagined seeing them clearly, without longing, without bitterness.
In the fantasy, she thanked them for what they taught her and walked away whole.
Reality did not grant that kindness.
Reality waited.
The broken bond demanded presence without speaking.
Joanne avoided certain paths. She altered routines. She skipped meals to avoid shared spaces.
The comedy of it all struck her in the strangest moment.
She hid behind a tall potted plant like a child playing a game too old for her age, heart racing, breath shallow, and laughed silently at the absurdity.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispered.
It was.
And it hurt anyway.
She finally spoke to herself honestly.
Not out loud. Not in writing.
In that quiet internal voice that could not be deceived.
She admitted she was afraid.
Not of them.
Of herself.
Of how much she had grown.
Of how much she still felt.
Of how easily the past could still call her name.
That realization broke something open.
Joanne stood at her window later that night, watching the campus lights glow like scattered stars. Somewhere out there, the past walked freely, unaware of the storm it stirred.
She placed her hand against the glass.
“I’m not the same,” she said softly. “You don’t get to meet her again unless I allow it.”
The decision was forming.
Not complete.
Not easy.
- Writer
