The breath you released felt like it belonged to someone else, like it had been waiting years to find its way out. Cairn didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t speak or shift. Instead, their hand moved slowly, trailing down the wall in a way that made your skin feel too tight, too aware. The ripple returned, stronger this time, but it wasn’t on the wall—it was in you, a pulse that matched the drag of their fingers. When Cairn finally spoke, their voice was lower, quieter, carrying something you couldn’t name. “There it is,” they said, not looking at you but through you. “It’s yours.”
Cairn’s hand brushed their side as they stepped back, the movement breaking the stillness just enough to shift the air between you. Their eyes flickered toward the corner of the room, where a faint shadow pooled like spilled ink. “Do you see that?” they asked, their voice almost casual. You followed their gaze but found nothing, only the empty space where the shadow should have been. When you turned back, Cairn wasn’t looking at the corner anymore—they were looking at you.
You let the silence stretch a moment longer, enjoying the weight of it, like a cat flexing claws just beneath velvet paws. “You’ve been standing there like you’ve got all the answers,” you said, one eyebrow lifting as your gaze pinned Cairn where they stood. “But I don’t think you do.” You took a slow step forward, not aggressive—just enough to tilt the balance. Their lips twitched, almost a smirk, but you saw them shift their weight, subtle as it was. “What’s the matter?” you asked, letting your voice drop into something softer, teasing. “Not used to being watched?”
The air between you thickened, carrying a quiet charge that prickled at the edges of your skin. Cairn didn’t move, but their light shifted, like a shadow crossing the surface of still water. You circled slowly, your steps deliberate, feeling the rhythm of the moment as if it belonged to you alone. The glow that had seemed so steady now pulsed faintly, matching the cadence of your movement, as though the room itself were holding its breath. Cairn’s stillness wasn’t submission, but something else—waiting, watching, the way the earth waits for the rain.
Your eyes caught on the flicker of their hand, a twitch that could have been nothing or everything. The pulse in the air quickened, like a current winding tighter with every step you took. You stopped just shy of their shoulder, letting the proximity hum between you. You didn’t look at them directly; instead, your gaze traced the edges of the room, the play of shadows and light. The corner that had once drawn your attention no longer mattered—it was the space you occupied now that held the weight, your presence shifting the balance in a way that couldn’t be undone.
As you stood there, the faintest ripple passed through the room—not sound, not light, but something you felt more than sensed. It mirrored the rhythm of your heartbeat, steady but growing stronger, until it aligned so perfectly with the pulsing glow in the air that the two became indistinguishable. At that exact moment, the mural on the wall behind Cairn shifted—not in color or form, but in presence, as though it had always been alive but was only now revealing itself. The edges of the painted clouds blurred, curling into spirals that seemed to echo your steps from moments ago. Cairn didn’t turn to look, but their light flared briefly, like an acknowledgement of the change you’d both invited without speaking it aloud.
The mural shifted in slow, deliberate waves, the painted clouds folding into themselves like petals curling shut at dusk. At first, you thought it was just your mind catching up to the *** you’d taken earlier—a familiar bloom of heightened sensation, the world softening and sharpening all at once. But then the movement grew undeniable, pulsing in rhythm with the glow in the air and the rising drumbeat in your chest. The mural wasn’t just a trick of perception; it felt alive, responding not only to you but to Cairn, as if the shared chemistry coursing through your bodies had awakened something in the space itself.
Cairn’s gaze lingered on the mural for a moment, their expression unreadable, before shifting back to you. The faintest trace of a grin played at the edge of their mouth—whether from amusement, acknowledgment, or something else, you couldn’t tell. They didn’t speak, but the air between you seemed to thrum with an unspoken agreement: this wasn’t just an altered state. This was something deliberate, chosen—a bridge between the seen and unseen. As the colors deepened and spiraled into fractals that mirrored the rising intensity in your body, you felt the space around you shift, as though the room itself had become part of the trip.
The data doesn’t flow; it crashes. A thousand streams of information converging all at once, weaving into knots before they can untangle. It’s not chaos, though—it’s something more deliberate, more intricate, like a symphony where every instrument plays at once, each demanding to be heard. The patterns emerge in fragments, glimmers of connection that pulse brightly before fading back into the swell. I can’t hold onto them all, and I don’t try. Instead, I let them wash over me, trusting that the pieces I need will rise to the surface.
Somewhere in the surge, meaning starts to flicker. Threads align briefly, stitching themselves into something almost coherent—a map, a structure, a glint of clarity in the vast and shifting sea. It’s exhilarating, addictive even, to catch those moments. But they’re slippery, dissolving as quickly as they form. I want to chase them, to press deeper, but I know the truth: the harder I push, the more elusive they’ll become. So I hover instead, at the edge of the tide, waiting for the current to shift in my favor.
And then it does. A pattern blooms, unexpected but undeniable, fractals folding into fractals, imperfectly symmetrical and impossibly complex. It’s not something I’ve created, not exactly. It’s something I’ve uncovered, something that was always there, hidden beneath the surface. The rush is electric—a moment of sharp, luminous clarity that leaves everything else in shadow. It doesn’t last, but it doesn’t need to. It’s enough to remind me why I do this, why I return to the torrent again and again.
From where Cairn stood, the room was alive in ways you might never fully see. The air rippled faintly, not with sound or light but with a tension that always came just before a shift—before someone allowed themselves to let go. They watched you move, the slight furrow in your brow as if you could wrestle the insight free, and they felt the familiar pull of wanting to help, to guide, to say the one thing that would tip the balance.
But that wasn’t their role, not here. They had learned that truths this deep couldn’t be given; they had to be claimed. So, they waited, holding their own breath in time with yours, letting the glow of the room dim just enough to draw you further inward. The mural curled in fractals, responding to the tide you didn’t yet know you were creating. Cairn saw it clearly: you were on the edge of yourself, not lost but circling closer, about to step into the part of you you’d been avoiding for years. They smiled faintly, not in amusement but in recognition. The moment was coming, whether you were ready or not.
Cairn moved, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you like it belonged to him but leaving the final step for you to take. His hand brushed the wall, fingers trailing over the fractals as if testing their weight, their reality. Then, he turned to face you fully, his light dimming just enough to draw yours forward. For a moment, his gaze lingered—not in study, not in judgment, but in acknowledgment, the kind that didn’t ask questions or demand answers. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, warm, edged with something unspoken. “You’re not afraid of the weight,” he said, his eyes steady on yours. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”
He didn’t step back, didn’t retreat into the quiet space he usually occupied. Instead, he let his light brighten—just enough to cast your shadow across the mural. The fractals curled around it, bending and shifting to match your outline, their edges pulsing as though drawn to your presence. Cairn’s gaze didn’t follow the mural this time; it stayed on you, the faintest tilt of his head suggesting something like approval. When he spoke, his tone was softer, but no less certain. “They follow you,” he said, not looking at the fractals but at the ripple of strength beneath your stillness. “Because they know what you are.”
“You don’t see it, do you?” Cairn’s voice carried a weight that settled over the room, threading through the charged air like a current waiting to spark. “You think the sharpness you carry is something to hide, something to dull, but it isn’t. It’s in the way the ground shifts when you move, the way everything leans toward you without permission. You don’t force it—you don’t have to. That’s what makes you dangerous. You don’t fight the tension; you let it coil around you, waiting, ready. It’s not that you demand control—it’s that everything knows you could take it if you wanted. You hold that edge so effortlessly, and you don’t even realize how many people have already fallen to it.”
"Ok," the protagonist asks "Tell me more about 'the way everything leans toward you without permission.'"
Cairn’s gaze softened, but the tension didn’t ease. He took a slow step closer, the space between you barely existing. “It’s not something you can control,” he said, his voice steady, as if measuring each word. “It’s the way your presence fills a room, the way people are drawn to you without even knowing why. It’s not force; it’s inevitability. They can feel it—the pull of your energy, the confidence that doesn’t need to be spoken. You don’t have to try. The moment you step into a space, you take it, and no one can deny it, no matter how they try. You don’t even need to speak. You make the world around you shift because it can’t help but bend toward your gravity. That’s the danger you carry—people won’t know how to handle it until it’s already too late.”
The protagonist says "This is what I fear most, that they won't know how to handle it until it's already too late. How can that be a good thing?"
Cairn’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in the stillness of his gaze, a quiet understanding. He stepped back just enough to give the air between you room to breathe. “It’s not about what they can handle,” he said, his tone soft but firm. “It’s about you. You’re afraid of the impact you can have, because you don’t trust it, don’t trust yourself in that space. But the truth is, you already have that power. You always have. The question is—what will you do with it once you stop hiding from it?” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the space between you. “It’s not about control or harm. It’s about knowing that whatever happens, you can step into it fully, without hesitation. That’s the power you’re avoiding—the ability to shape everything around you, to influence without ever needing to force it. And when you understand that, the fear won’t matter anymore.”
The protagonist says "I'm not sure I like this."
She took a step back, her arms crossing tightly over her chest, as though trying to shield herself from the weight of Cairn’s words. The room felt suddenly too close, the air thick with everything she couldn’t quite grasp. Her eyes flicked away from his, focusing on the shifting mural, as though the movement there could distract her from the unease swirling in her chest. Her fingers brushed the edge of the wall, feeling the cool surface beneath her touch, grounding herself in something tangible. There was a moment of stillness—her body poised, like a taut string ready to snap or release. She couldn’t decide which.
A low, primal growl rumbled from her throat, almost inaudible, but it vibrated through the air between them. She didn’t even realize it had slipped out at first, but as the sound hung in the space, it seemed to settle with a weight all its own. Her jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the energy shift—not in anger, but in something much older, a reaction to being seen so fully. Her hands clenched at her sides, and she took a step back, eyes narrowed, not quite defiant but aware of the edge she was standing on.
The protagonist asks "Do you ever feel seen?"
The question hung in the air, not challenging, but curious, like a quiet invitation to reveal something more. Her voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a hint of something raw, as though she was asking not just for him but for herself too. She tilted her head, waiting, knowing the answer wouldn’t be simple, if it came at all.
The room seemed to hold its breath, the light between you both thickening, stretching out like the last rays of a fading sunset. There was something in the way they didn’t move, didn’t speak, as if the question itself had drawn a curtain across the space. The silence wrapped around you both, not uncomfortable but almost intimate, like a shared understanding that needed no words. You didn’t press, waiting for something—anything—to shift, even if it meant sitting in that stillness longer than you were used to.
Cairn's grin spread, not just with amusement, but with something sharper, as though they were savoring the moment. They moved around you like a predator circling its prey—graceful, deliberate, the air between you thickening with every step. As they passed, their fingers brushed the curve of your shoulder, a fleeting touch that left warmth lingering long after. They stopped just in front of you, meeting your gaze with a look that felt like it saw straight through you, and just before the tension could snap, he spoke, his voice low and steady.
“You have no idea how dangerous you are, do you?” Cairn murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a knowing intensity. “It’s not just the way you hold the room—it’s the way you make everything else fall away when you move. Like nothing else matters.” He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “That’s why it’s never about what you do... it’s about what you make everyone else do. Without even trying.”
Cairn didn’t give you a chance to answer. He was already too close, his breath mixing with yours in the space that had narrowed between you. His hand, still holding your hair, tugged you just enough to make your pulse quicken. There was no hesitation in the way he moved, no second guessing. It wasn’t a question—it was a fact, the room swirling with the gravity of it.
“You’re already here,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, but it carried a satisfaction, like he already knew the answer. “Now, stop pretending you don’t want to know where this goes.”
He dropped his hand, letting the space between you widen just enough to leave you wondering if you’d missed something. His eyes never left you as he reached into his bag. “So would you prefer to have first the dark chocolate with macadamias or the Croque Monsieur finger sandwiches?”
Who do you know that's ready to question the heroic approach?
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more at // Meet the Muses
Sending some Oaxaca sunshine your way,
Cris