I escaped the sensory assault of the party and navigated the dark campus paths using faster routes I discovered avoiding drunken stragglers until I reached the safety of my dorm. By 2300 hours, I was locked inside.
Deadbolt. Chain. Pointless physical security against psychological threats, but the click-clack provided a hit of control. Something I really needed right now.
The room was dark, cool, and… Safe. I didn't turn on the main light, navigating by the ambient glow of streetlamps filtering through the blinds. I stripped off the jacket Josh had forced me to wear—it smelled like spilled beer and cheap perfume, and threw it into the corner.
I sat at my desk. I needed a hard reset. My internal systems were flashing warnings at me
Hailey. That fucking bitch.
Her assault had breached my mental firewall. She hadn't just observed my actions in the classroom; she had reverse-engineered the programmer.
You're just scared shitless of being human.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my chest, right where she had poked me. It was a phantom sensation. A lingering feeling from intrusion event.
I hated that she was right. I hated the tremor I remembered in my own hand over that console. I hated sitting here in the dark, terrified not of failing classes, but of feeling something I couldn't put into… numbers…
I needed an anchor. I needed to calibrate against something known. Something to ground me this clusterfuck
Lagos. I needed the humidity, the chaotic symphony of generators. I needed to remember the world wasn't just sterile lecture halls and privileged kids playing at being wasted.
I pulled out my phone. They screen glowed aggressively bright. I opened the VoIP app to call home. It was expensive, and the data routing was notoriously unstable, but it was my only lifeline.
I initiated the call. The latency indicator flickered between yellow and red.
"Hello? Hello?"
My mother's voice burst through, distorted by static, like she was shouting through a wind tunnel.
"Mama. Yes. It's me," I pitched my voice low, trying to sound grounded. The dutiful son.
"Femi! Ah, thank God. Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay? Did the police stop you?"
Her immediate jump to panic was familiar, comforting in its predictability. The Nigerian mom reflex.
"No police, Mama. I am fine. It's just… Friday night here. I wanted to hear your voice."
There was a three-second delay. Then, a sigh of relief that sounded like white noise. "Okay, okay. We are fine too. Your father is sleeping. The generator is acting up again, that useless mechanic fixed nothing."
I let the familiar complaints wash over me. It was the background noise of my life, arriving fragmented and thin.
"Femi, are you eating properly?" her voice cut through the static, sharp with anxiety. "You sound thin. Are they feeding you that bland American food?"
"I am eating well Mama. The dining hall has good options."
"Good! You need pepper, Femi. To keep your blood strong against the cold. Did you find the shop in Roxbury with the real palm oil?"
"Not yet. I have been busy with classes."
I was running a script. The "Good Immigrant Son" protocol. I couldn't tell her the truth. I couldn't tell her I'd simulated genocide to impress a sociopathic professor, or that a music girl had psychoanalyzed me at a frat party. If I told her, the worry would eat her alive. I was their investment. I had to be perfect.
"Work hard, my son," she said, her voice struggling through interference. "We are so proud. You are our shining star, eh? Don't forget."
The weight of it settled on my shoulders. The shining star. The flawless machine.
"I won't forget, Mama."
"Send pictures. Let us see the—"
The connection dropped. A harsh electronic tone replaced her voice.
Call Ended. Packet Loss: 38%.
Thirty-eight percent of the data lost in transit. An accurate summary of my life right now. I was transmitting, but only fragments were arriving. I felt hollowed out.
I tossed the phone onto the mattress and turned to the other anchor. The reliable one. Where the rules of engagement were clear and I was the apex predator.
I booted up my laptop. I clicked at my favourite game with desperate hunger. The main menu loaded, the aggressive electronic soundtrack a call to arms. I moved my mouse to the Clan tab. The Gbagada Titans. My squad. The people who knew that when I went silent on comms, I was about to do something impossible.
I clicked it. The roster populated.
All grey dots.
Olamide (Last Online: 11 Hours Ago)
Bayo (Last Online: 13 Hours Ago)
Chichi (Last Online: 16 Hours Ago)
The time difference. It was early morning back home. They were asleep. Living lives that didn't involve staring at screens at odd hours.
I stared at the grey names. They felt like tombstones.
I backed out into the global lobby. My high-level avatar idled on a bench in the staging area. Other random players ran around spamming emotes. The chaotic noise usually amped me up. Tonight, it just felt empty. A digital void.
Without my squad, without the synchronized movements and shorthand callouts in pidgin and Yoruba, it felt pointless. I was just a mercenary with no cause.
I closed the laptop lid, cutting off the noise. The silence returned, heavier than before.
I sat in the dark, vibrating with leftover adrenaline and the crushing weight of isolation. My brain ran loops, replaying Hailey's words, replaying my mother's static-filled voice.
The doorknob turned, the lock clicking loudly.
Josh stumbled in.
If I was a system error, Josh was a beat-up minivan still running despite three flat tires. He looked wrecked, wearing pajama pants patterned with cartoon bears and squinting against the dim hallway light.
He was holding two steaming mugs.
"You alive in here?" he croaked. His voice sounded like he'd been gargling gravel.
"I think so, yeah…." I said, staring at the wall.
Josh kicked the door shut and navigated by muscle memory around the piles of his own clothes to my bed. He sat down heavily, groaning.
"Dude," he blinked slowly. "You bailed hard. Ninja smoke bomb."
He held one of the mugs out. It smelled intensely of artificial chocolate and processed sugar.
"I come bearing gifts. A peace offering for dragging you into the trenches."
I looked at the mug, then at his blurry face. "I do not require any appeasement offerings bro. I'm good."
"It's not an offering. It's hot cocoa with those little dehydrated marshmallows. It's disgusting American comfort culture in a cup. Take it."
"That sounds unhealthy."
"That's the point," Josh sighed, leaning his head back against the wall, eyes closed. "Look, Femi. I'm wasted. But even I can see you're spiraling."
He opened one eye, looking at me sideways. Zero judgment. Just messy, uncomplicated exhaustion.
"You think you're slick, hiding behind all that 'data' talk. But Hailey was right. You're scared."
My defenses bristled. "I am not—"
"Save the robot act. You're ten thousand miles from home trying to be the perfect tactical genius twenty-four-seven. That shit is heavy. It's okay to just be… shitty for a minute. To need something useless and sweet."
He nudged my hand with the warm mug. "Drink the damn cocoa, Femi. Tactical morale refuel."
I hesitated. Accepting comfort felt like admitting weakness. Like letting the firewall down. But the silence was deafening, and the empty lobby on my screen was burned into my retinas. I was tired of holding the perimeter alone.
Slowly, I took the mug. His skin was hot, feverish from alcohol.
I took a sip. It was revoltingly sweet. A sugar bomb. It was also the warmest thing I had felt since arriving in Cambridge.
"It is… kinda nice…," I muttered.
Josh let out a short laugh that turned into a cough. "High praise from the ice king."
He slumped nursing his own mug, eyes closed again.
We sat there in the dark for a long time, the only sound the occasional slurp of cocoa and Josh's ragged breathing. He didn't try to talk. He didn't ask about Hailey. He just sat there, being a messy, inefficient, hungover human being in my vicinity.
He was a variable I couldn't control, a source of constant noise. But as the artificial warmth spread through my chest, numbing the sharp edges of isolation, I realized something.
Josh was the only thing in this country that didn't feel like a test. He was just… there.
He was my safe zone. The only place on the campus where I didn't have to keep my guard up.
I took another long sip of the sickly sweet sludge, finally accepting the inefficiency of comfort.