The knock came at 12:48 a.m. — three soft taps, then a pause, then two more. Hardly a signature, admittedly, but it wasn’t hard to guess who it was.

Stella groaned into her pillow, face-down on her bed, still wearing the same flannel pajama pants and her prized McGovern ‘76 “Come Home America” T-shirt she’d thrown on after her shower. She honestly didn’t remember buying the shirt; she probably grabbed it from some thrift store in town at some point and didn’t really think about the specifics. It was a damn good shirt, though. Of course, the irony of wearing a shirt about coming home while being stuck in a dorm room wasn’t lost on her.

Another knock. “Stella? You up?”

Warren.

No, she thought. Nobody’s up. Nobody should be up. This is when normal people experience this thing called sleep.

“I know you’re in there. I saw your light on earlier.”

Earlier being the key word. That was twenty minutes ago, before she’d finally given up on her Contemporary American Lit reading — she’d had enough Kerouac for the day — and decided she’d had enough of being conscious, at least for today. She needed sleep! Stella rolled over, squinting at the crack under her door where Warren’s beat-up Converse shuffled nervously. She could practically hear him overthinking whether to knock again.

“It’s, um, important,” he added, his voice muffled through the wood. “Well, not like life-or-death important, but… uh, you know. Important to me.”

She did know. In fact, everything was important to Warren at 1 a.m. Last Tuesday, it was some sort of crackpot theory about parallel universes and whether every decision created a new timeline. (Though not too crackpot.) Thursday was his existential crisis about choosing chemistry over physics, or was it physics over chemistry? Saturday had been… honestly, she couldn’t remember anymore, which might’ve been a good thing. Their late-night sessions were starting to blur so much that she didn’t know what had happened and what didn’t.

With a resigned sigh, Stella hauled herself up and shuffled to the door, catching her reflection in a mirror on the way; her hair was a half-tamed mess from tossing and turning, mascara slightly smudged because she’d been too tired to properly wash her face, and overall she had the general aura of someone who’d given up on looking presentable about three hours ago. It wasn’t too far from the truth. She grabbed a hair tie from her desk and attempted a messy bun. It didn’t help. Ugh.

She opened the door to find Warren mid-knock, and his fist was frozen in the air like he’d been paused in a video game. My God, it was ridiculous. His green jacket was unzipped over an “Ah! The element of surprise” T-shirt that had definitely seen better days, but was still funny enough, and he had a wide-eyed look that made it seem like his brain was running at about 200% capacity while everyone else’s had shut down for maintenance… a long time ago.

“Hey,” he said, lowering his hand awkwardly. “Sorry, I know it’s late—”

“It’s not late, it’s tomorrow.”

“Right, yeah, but I just had this dream and I really need to—” He paused, actually looking at her for the first time. “Were you asleep?”

“No, I was, uh, just practicing being horizontal. Very important, very tremendous skill. You should try it sometime.”

He missed the sarcasm entirely, already peering past her into the room. “Can I come in? Just for a minute? I promise I’ll be quick.”

It was never just a minute. It was never quick, unfortunately. Last week’s “quick question” about thermodynamics had turned into a two-hour discussion about the heat death of the universe, which somehow segued into his fears about graduating, which then became about his parents’ divorce when he was twelve. Stella honestly felt bad for him, but there was only so much she could process and say so, so late at night.

Yet there was something about the way he stood there that made it impossible for her to say no. Maybe it was because he reminded her of her younger brother back home — not physically, of course, but in the same inability to process thoughts internally, and, of course, the same goofiness.

Or maybe she was just too tired to argue.

“Fine,” she muttered, stepping aside. “But if anyone complains about noise again—”

“I’ll be quiet,” Warren promised, already squeezing past her into the room. “Super quiet. Like a ninja. A, uh, quiet ninja. A real quiet ninja. I’m still being stealthy, right?”

She closed the door softly and turned to find him already making himself comfortable on her floor, pushing aside a pile of laundry she’d been meaning to deal with for three days. Couldn’t he have just sat on the couch like her other guests did? (Not that she had many, unless someone like Alyssa counted.) He sat cross-legged like a kindergartener at story time. It was kind of funny.

“You want water or something?” she offered, mostly to delay whatever stream of consciousness was about to spill out.

“No, no, I’m good. Actually, wait, do you have any of those crackers? The ones with the—”

“Warren.”

“Right. Sorry. The dream.”

---

It was now 1:07 a.m. The dull hum of her desk lamp cast long shadows across Stella’s side of the room, making Warren look like he was performing some kind of shadow puppet show with his gesturing. She was slumped against her pillows, occasionally pulling her T-shirt down when it rode up, and fighting to keep her eyes open while Warren sat on the floor. His jacket sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, and he’d written on his arm in Sharpie earlier. Well, at least she thought she remembered seeing it, but the text was so smudged now that she wasn’t even sure if it had been there to begin with.

In fact, she had no idea what he was even saying anymore.

The dream had started in what sounded like a mall, or maybe a school, or possibly — and this was where she’d started losing track — a mall that used to be a school but was also somehow underwater. Jinkies! There’d been a whole preamble about the setting, the lighting (apparently very important for the “mood” of the dream, as he said), and a detailed description of what everyone was wearing, including a janitor who may or may not have been his high school physics teacher.

“So the escalator is going up, but I’m trying to go down,” Warren was saying, with his hands doing their best to mimick the motion. “And every step I take, it’s like the stairs are multiplying. L-like that artist — what’s his name…? Oh, Escher! Like an Escher painting but worse because I can feel my legs burning.”

“Mm-hm,” Stella mumbled, pulling her blanket up to her chin.

“And then — this is where it gets weird—”

Oh, THIS is where it gets weird? she thought but didn’t say.

“—the giant magnet appears. Just, like, drops from the ceiling. Or maybe it was always there? Dreams are weird with continuity. But anyway, this magnet — right?” His words tumbled out quite fast and messy. It sort of seemed he was afraid he’d forget if he didn’t say them all at once. “It’s pulling everything, like desks, chairs, and even this random-ass fire hydrant that definitely wasn’t there before. A-and I’m running, except my shoes are, like, stuck to the ground because they have metal… things. Cleats? No, not cleats. Those metal taps? Whatever.”

He paused to take a breath, looking at her as if she should be taking notes. Perhaps she should have; Stella had already missed a couple of important details here.

“Oh! A-and then there was this guy — fuck, I don’t really remember him completely — but he’s got these laser eyes, like Cyclops from X-Men, just more… purple? And he’s screaming something about uh, I think entropy. Or maybe enthalpy. One of the science words; I missed that part. It was definitely threatening, though. The tone was very threatening.”

Warren paused again, looking expectantly at Stella for some kind of revelation.

But of course, there wasn’t one. Her brain was operating on auxiliary power at best. Even if she had one, what exactly was she supposed to tell him? Well…

This had become their thing somehow, this bizarre ritual or whatever she could call it. It started innocently enough a few weeks prior: Warren had stumbled into her room seeking advice on some chemistry lab homework where he’d been working on. Nothing really unusual there. It just so happened that his version of seeking advice was essentially word-vomiting every thought while she sat there, nodding and pretending that she knew everything that was going on. Of course, Stella would follow up with something about how “mistakes were just learning opportunities” or some other fortune cookie wisdom, and somehow, he’d feel better.

The problem was, he kept coming back. Night after night, knock after knock, dream after dream, crisis after crisis. She was fucked. He was, too.

Stella stifled a yawn and squinted at him for a moment. He was flickering in and out of focus; she was so tired that she could barely even concentrate on which of his hands he was gesturing with now — they seemed to multiply in her vision like the stairs in his dream. Wild!

“Hmm. Right. So uh, see, the giant magnet… uh, the laser eyes. That’s… classic repression.”

Warren blinked, leaning forward. “Repression of what, though?”

Good question. What did magnets represent? Attraction? Hm, no. Well, uh, yes, actually, but that was too obvious and would lead to a conversation she definitely didn’t have the energy for.

“Probably,” she said through another yawn, “your unresolved fear of… uh… magnets. Many magnets, too. An… unbelievable, tremendous amount of magnets. Never have seen so many before.”

“Fear of magnets?” His voice pitched up. He was incredulous. It was as if she’d he was afraid of butterflies, which, at this rate, was not too far off from the truth.

“Yeah, ‘cause they’re powerful and stuff. They repel things… attract things… control things without touching them… you know,” her voice trailed off as consciousness started slipping away. It wasn’t completely wrong, was it? Magnets were pretty powerful and did repel things. Christ, she was really reaching now. Stella should’ve told him to fuck off an hour ago, but here she was, trying to psychoanalyze magnetic fields at 1 a.m.

She was definitely too nice for this. Or too tired to not be nice. Or maybe she just didn’t know how to set boundaries. Her therapist back home would have a field day with this. Oh, poor Dr. Kalkbrenner…

Warren rubbed his temples, his hair sticking up at odd angles. “But this isn’t some random Freudian thing, Stella. I-I think it’s connected to my—”

But Stella was gone, head lolling to the side, and her brain finally giving up the pretense of staying awake. Her mouth was slightly open, and she’d definitely drool on her pillow later, but dignity was a luxury she couldn’t afford at — she cracked one eye open to check her alarm clock — 1:18 a.m. It felt like time was passing quicker now, or maybe she just lost track of time here.

It wasn’t personal, honestly, but what else could she do? She could empathize with him having an overactive brain that wouldn’t shut off, but she had a hard time rationalizing dream logic when actual logic had left the building, caught an Uber, and was probably halfway to Canada by now.

It was funny, too, in a tragic sort of way. Warren had become the dorm’s unofficial Ritalin kid, bouncing from room to room at ungodly hours, asking questions about every little thing. It looked like Stella was his last stop on the insomnia tour, and of course, she was too conflict-averse to say no to him. And then they ended up here.

In fact, she was pretty sure she’d just used this line of thinking minutes ago…

Warren sat there for another moment, watching her breathe evenly against the pillow. Her bun had completely given up, and her hair splayed across the pillowcase. Oh well. He shrugged and pulled himself up. His joints immediately popped from sitting on the floor for too long. The carpet had left a few faint indents on his palms — funny little diamond patterns that he traced absently.

“I should probably go,” he muttered, not expecting a response.

“Mhm. Good idea,” Stella mumbled, though her voice was slightly muffled by the pillow. She forced one eye open, catching him silhouetted against the fairy lights her friend Courtney had strung up last month. “But, hey, you’ve come here like… what, ten nights in a row? Eleven? I’m losing count. You sure there’s not something on your mind? Like, something real?”

Warren stood at the door, hand on the knob. The hallway light flickered through the crack underneath, casting him in partial silhouette.

“Real?”

“Real. You know… for real real, not for play play.”

“I dunno. Maybe?” he admitted, but didn’t elaborate. “It’s just… easier to talk about the weird stuff, you know? I mean, the dreams and theories and whatever. The real stuff is…”

He trailed off, shrugging one shoulder.

“Scary,” Stella supplied, both eyes open now. She wasn’t quite sure what exactly it was, but she sort of knew what he meant. Probably.

“Yeah.” He gave her a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks for… uh, you know. Listening.”

“Anytime,” she lied. “Well, not anytime. Maybe like… before midnight next time?”

“Deal,” he lied back.

The door clicked shut softly behind him.

Stella listened to his footsteps retreat down the hall. She hoped that he would finally go to sleep and leave her alone for the time being. Perhaps she was not in the best mood today. Or maybe, of course, she just wanted to sleep. Which is what she proceeded to do; she pulled her blanket up to her chin. Tomorrow — well, technically today — Warren would probably apologize, she’d wave it off, realize he was in fact scared of magnets, and they’d do this dance again in a few nights when his brain wouldn’t shut up about something else.

But that was tomorrow’s problem. Or tonight’s? Time had lost all meaning.

For now, blessed silence. She grabbed her earbuds from the nightstand, cued up some good ol’ white noise, and face-planted back into her pillow.

Today was going to be a good day.

---

His key scraped against the lock three times before he got it right, his left hand somewhat twitchy. Warren always thought his room felt smaller at night, which was true to an extent — it was so dark he could barely see a thing, too. The single window faced the back of another building, so even moonlight was a luxury. Memorizing the room’s layout at night was not an easy task, something his toes could easily agree with after their repeated meetings with his desk chair’s leg.

After a few bumps here and there (including a spectacular collision with his laundry basket that sent a week’s worth of unwashed socks flying), he collapsed onto his bed. The glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling — which he got as a gift from an old friend from elementary school, surprisingly — had lost their charge ages ago, and were just dead plastic shapes now. A shame, too; he’d arranged them into actual constellations in the past. The most recent one was Cassiopeia, and God, it had been marvelous before it faded. Meanwhile, his brain wouldn’t shut up, spinning through the same tired loops it went through over and over every single day.

Fuck it. Sleep wasn’t happening. Maybe he could just watch something until his eyes gave up.

The flash drive was where he’d left it, buried under a pile of chemistry notes and an empty package of Pop-Tarts. Moving to his desk, Warren pulled his laptop closer, the screen’s harsh light making him squint. Oh, Windows 8… why did I believe in you? The tiles stared back at him. As much as he missed the original start menu, he loved its colors, though.

Warren scrolled through his movie collection; it was mostly stuff he’d downloaded trying to seem sophisticated, only to find out he actually did like the content he was watching. Honestly, really neat stuff.

“The… uh… oh, Eyes Wide Shut,” he muttered, clicking the file. A great film, even though he only watched it because of its beautiful alternative cover. If only they made more movies like this!

His fingers hovered over his phone. Maybe… but no. Stella was done with him for the night, probably dreaming about fucking magnets or whatever. Brooke would be passed out with her textbooks, and Max…

It was amazing. It was fucking amazing. Everyone had their shit together except him. Well, that wasn’t true and he knew it, but at 1:31 a.m., everything felt true.

Although the movie kept playing, by five minutes in, Warren wasn’t really watching it anymore. He let his fingers drum against his desk in an erratic pattern. Tom Cruise was probably doing something important — although he was slowly realizing this wasn’t a good Christmas movie after all —, but all Warren could focus on was how the room felt like it was closing in on him.

Maybe I should text Max. No, that was stupid. It was past midnight and she’d probably think he was being weird again. She’d probably be sleeping, too. Maybe finish that chemistry homework. Also stupid; he’d already done it twice because he couldn’t remember if he’d done it right the first time.

His chest felt tight. The movie’s soundtrack was starting to grate on him, and all those sustained notes that seemed to go nowhere. God, maybe he’d clicked on the wrong movie. Warren reached for his inhaler out of habit, even though this wasn’t asthma. This was just… Tuesday night. Wednesday morning, technically.

“Fuck this,” he whispered, closing the media player mid-scene. The sudden silence was somehow worse than the music.

Warren stared at his desktop wallpaper. It was a really cool photo of the Carina Nebula he downloaded a few weeks ago. Still, he felt his shoulders sag. He needed something, anything, to just… stop thinking and get a good night’s sleep, or close to it. And with that, he realized there was only one reasonable thing to do.

He opened his browser — Firefox 25, baby! — and searched for “white noise fan sounds 10 hours.” The first result was well, exactly what it sounded like. It would have to suffice, for now. Warren pushed his laptop to the side and lay back on his bed, still in his jeans because changing seemed like too much effort.

The laptop stayed open, casting a faint blue glow across the room while the fan noise filled the silence. Warren pulled his pillow over his head and tried to match his breathing to the steady rhythm. In and out, just like the fan blades. It seemed to work, too! But then the thoughts crept back in.

I’m not afraid of magnets, he thought. No, no, that was stupid. Stella had been basically unconscious when she’d said that anyway. But he wondered if he was being a burden to her. Annoying, perhaps… being younger than everyone else didn’t help, unfortunately.

The fan hummed on, and eventually, Warren’s thoughts began to slow.

Maybe tomorrow would make more sense. Or perhaps not.

But hopefully it would.