Haveubeenflashed Link

I pull the curtains shut. But the flash is already inside me. It always was.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

The phone buzzes again. Same friend: “Seriously. The app. It’s fun.” HaveUbeenFlashed

I don’t click it. I don’t have to. Because I just remembered something I never lived: standing in a white room, countdown from ten, a needle on my skin. A voice asking, “Have you been flashed?” And me replying, “Not yet.” I pull the curtains shut

Outside my window, the streetlight flickers once. Twice. A rhythm I’ve heard before—in a dream, in a warning, in the space between heartbeats. countdown from ten