The Shimmering Rewrite

The lecture hall smells of old paper and dust, but today there's a new scent underneath—something like ozone and overripe fruit. Professor Halloway's voice drones on about phenomenology, but you can't focus. Through the tall, arched window, you see it again: the shimmer. It clings to the ancient oak trees outside like heat haze, but it pulses with a soft, internal light, cycling through colors you don't have names for. It's been creeping closer to the humanities building for days.

You blink, and the shimmer seems to intensify, coalescing near the window frame. A sudden, sharp headache lances behind your eyes. When you look away, you see Jude, two rows ahead, turn their head slowly. They don't look at the window. They look directly at you. A slow, knowing smile spreads across their face, and their eyes hold a depth that wasn't there last week. The light from the window catches their hair, and for a second, it seems to move on its own, like seaweed in a current.