Through the Distant Universe

I sat in my room on the second floor, my eyes fixed on the laptop screen. My fingers trembled as I clicked "Refresh" yet again on the page displaying the AP exam results. My heart pounded in my throat, the muscles in my neck taut with agonizing anticipation. Finally, the numbers froze: perfect scores in mathematics, physics, and computer science. In that same moment, an email from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology appeared in my inbox.

The realization didn't hit me immediately. My long-cherished dream, for which I had spent countless nights poring over textbooks, had become reality. Full admission with a grant covering most of the tuition—instead of nearly eighty thousand dollars a year, only twenty-two and a half thousand. I traced my finger across the screen, as if to confirm it wasn't an optical illusion.

"It can't be…" I exhaled, my voice breaking from a mix of astonishment and relief.

I leaned back in my chair, feeling a tremor run through my body. The room, cluttered as always with my "projects," suddenly felt confining. Posters of intricate schematics, photographs of distant galaxies—not just stars to me, but riddles waiting to be solved—adorned the walls. Shelves sagged under the weight of books on robotics, physics, and science fiction, proof that I didn't just read but devoured the essence of every concept. On the desk lay a pile of scribbled notebooks filled with formulas and sketches, alongside crumpled parts from a long-disassembled toaster, which I was certain would one day find new purpose. All those years of persistence, tears of exhaustion, and relentless mental strain had led to this blinking email. I had always seen the world as a set of systems, mechanisms that could be understood, dismantled, and reassembled—improved or adapted.

I squeezed my eyes shut. "This isn't a dream," I repeated to myself. An image of my parents surfaced in my mind. Their contribution to my life was immense. My father, James, an engineer through and through, taught me not to fear breaking things to understand them and to never give up until I found a solution. I recalled how, at eight years old, he calmly watched as my first robot fell apart. "Every failure is a chance to learn something new, Adam," he would say. My mother, Elizabeth, a surgeon, instilled in me patience and attention to the smallest details, showing me that the most complex systems are made of countless interconnected parts. Their quiet but unwavering faith in me was the foundation upon which I built my ambitions.

Footsteps sounded from below. The door opened, and my mother, Elizabeth Percons, appeared in the doorway, her hair disheveled and her apron dusted with flour. Her eyes, initially filled with concern, sparkled with joy the moment she saw my face. Without a word, she understood everything.

I jumped up, the chair clattering backward. The words burst out of me:

"Mom, I got in! To MIT! All my APs—fives! Full scholarship!" My voice faltered.

She gasped, her eyes brimming with tears. She rushed to me, wrapping me in an embrace so tight it stole my breath. I felt the warmth of her tears on my shirt, mingling with the familiar scent of lavender and vanilla—the smell of home, warmth, and safety, something I rarely allowed myself to dwell on, immersed as I was in calculations.

"Oh, Adam, I'm so proud of you!" she exhaled.

The door creaked open again. My father, James Percons, stepped in. Tall, with streaks of silver in his hair, he exuded an air of reliability. His dark blue eyes, like mine, gazed calmly. In them, I saw quiet satisfaction, as if he had always known this moment would come.

"What's all the commotion? I hope it's not a fire?" he said softly, with a hint of teasing.

I laughed through my tears:

"Dad, I… I got into MIT! And aced all my exams!" I blurted out.

He approached, placed a hand on my shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze. That simple gesture, without unnecessary words, meant more than any grand speech.

"Outstanding, son," he said, a rare warmth in his voice. "You've proven it."

In their steady gazes and firm embraces, I felt their love and support. They were my anchor.

My mother wiped her tears, her face radiant. Then, with a burst of inspiration, she clapped her hands:

"We must celebrate! I baked your favorite apple pie. I even got non-alcoholic cider! Let's go downstairs."

We descended to the living room, enveloped in familiar warmth. On the coffee table stood a towering pie, its scent of cinnamon and apples filling the air. Beside it was a bottle of cider and three glasses.

My mother poured the cider with trembling hands. We raised our glasses.

"To our son, to his success, and to a new future!" she proclaimed.

"To you, Adam," my father added quietly, looking me in the eyes. "You've made us prouder."

The glasses clinked. I took a sip of the cool cider and a bite of the pie. It all felt like a symbol of a new chapter. I listened as my parents recalled funny stories, but my thoughts were already drifting—to MIT, to new challenges. Their words seemed to reach me through a light haze, their joy mingling with my own, grander plans.

"You were always so curious," my mother said, her eyes glowing. "I knew something big was waiting for you."

I smiled back, but a pang of unease stirred within me: MIT was a world of geniuses, and I might not measure up. Tonight, though, I pushed those doubts aside.

My mother stood:

"We need to call Grandma and Grandpa."

She left, and I remained in the living room with my father. He looked at me with a gaze that held a deep, almost unspoken charge.

"Adam," he began quietly, his voice heavy with meaning. "You've achieved something incredible. But remember: this is only the beginning."

My shoulders tensed. His words always carried weight and responsibility.

"Challenges lie ahead. Studies, battles with yourself, choices that will shape your life. Your mother and I will be here. But soon, you'll walk your own path."

He paused. His gaze softened.

"You've always been strong, Adam. Life sometimes demands everything. I want you to be ready for the day when we're no longer by your side. It's inevitable."

A flicker of fear stirred in my chest. I didn't want to think about that.

"I'm not trying to scare you," he added gently. "I just want you to be prepared. Life can plunge you into an abyss where light feels like an illusion. But I know you carry an inner flame that can't be extinguished."

His hand rested on my shoulder. Our eyes met, and in his, I saw unshakable confidence.

"When that day comes, and you stand alone, prove something, Adam," he said. "Not to me, not to your mother, not to the world. Prove to yourself that you can rise, even if everything collapses. Prove that your spirit is stronger than any darkness."

"I'll try, Dad," I whispered, tears burning my eyes, my voice hoarse. "I won't let you down."

He smiled.

"You know, I wasn't always this 'wise,'" he added. "I nearly burned down a lab once. They told me, 'Mistakes are lessons. Just don't repeat them.' So learn from yours, too."

I laughed, feeling lighter:

"I'll try not to blow anything up. But experiments are inevitable."

"You'll manage," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "You have everything you need to achieve greatness."

Their lessons, their faith, their principles had woven themselves into the very structure of my thinking. I knew that even if they were no longer by my side one day, I would stand firm.

I glanced at the clock—nearly eight. I remembered I'd promised to stop by Felicia Green's.

"Dad, I'm heading to Felicia's. There's a small gathering, I think."

"Alright, son," he nodded. "Don't stay out too late, and be careful."

I stepped outside. The cool breeze, scented with blooming trees, stung my face, washing away the last traces of tears and pulling me from the warm cocoon of family into reality. I hopped on my bike and sped through the lit streets, my heart echoing my father's words: "Prove to yourself." I believed I was ready for any challenge.

But I didn't yet know that this night would change my life forever.

The evening of March was cool but invigorating, as if heralding something momentous. I pedaled, feeling the wind slip under my jacket. Familiar suburban streets flickered by under the glow of streetlights, dotted with blooming maples. I'd passed through here thousands of times, but tonight the journey felt different: I was riding to celebrate a new chapter in my life.

Numbers pulsed in my mind, the code to my dream: 5 out of 5 in mathematics, physics, and computer science on the APs, the letter from MIT with the grant. I savored the thought of sharing the news myself, imagining the hum of astonished gasps. Some knew about the exams, but the grant I'd kept secret.

Felicia Green's mansion loomed at the end of the street, a mirage of wealth detached from reality: a three-story building with white columns, vast windows spilling light, and an immaculate garden lit by neon. Music—a mix of pop hits, rock, and electronica—pulsed in the air. The yard buzzed with A-class graduates. I braked at the wrought-iron gates, dismounted, leaned my bike against the fence, and smirked.

"Expensive, but soulless," I muttered.

Everything here screamed money. But I, raised in a home where every object had purpose and history, wasn't impressed by this ostentatious luxury. Our house was smaller, but it brimmed with real life. In the Percons family, things were extensions of ourselves.

I pushed open the heavy gate and stepped into the yard, where the A-class elite buzzed. Familiar faces flashed by—those I'd shared sleepless nights with before exams. The crowd was noisily celebrating admissions. The air mingled scents of expensive perfume, grass, and sweet drinks. Laughter rang by the pool, dancing pulsed near the speakers, and small groups whispered plans in the shadows.

I stepped into this noisy yet strangely ordered chaos, scanning for my friends. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and sweet lemonades, plastic cups crunched underfoot, and the music—a blend of pop and rock—hummed in the background. Familiar faces flickered around, but I sought only two.

At the drinks table, I spotted them almost instantly—Felicia and Blake. Blake, as usual, stood slightly apart, gazing at the stars. His dark curls stuck out in every direction, his face lit with that half-dreamy, half-sly smile, as if he'd just cracked the mystery of black holes. Felicia, in her favorite school-emblem sweater, was animatedly recounting something, waving her hands and pushing her slipping glasses back up her nose.

"Adam!" Blake shouted, spotting me. His eyes lit up, and he broke into a wide grin, dimples flashing.

"Blake! Fel!" I called back, feeling the day's fatigue dissolve in their familiar warmth. He bounded over and pulled me into a bear hug, slapping my back so hard I nearly choked.

"Percons, where've you been hiding?" he exclaimed joyfully. "I thought you were stuck in the basement again, soldering another toaster!"

"You'd have dragged me out, like last time," I chuckled, clapping him back. "Remember when you nearly broke the door down because I fell asleep over a project?"

Felicia laughed, stepping closer, and playfully nudged Blake in the side.

"That was epic," she said, her eyes sparkling. "And then I had to lie to the vice-principal that we were 'saving data for the olympiad.'"

"And he bought it because you're a negotiation genius, Fel," I winked.

Our friendship was like a well-oiled machine: Blake the reckless engine, me the gears, and Felicia the one keeping it all from falling apart. We'd been through everything—from late-night coding sessions to the time Blake crashed a drone into the principal's pool, and I wrote a three-page apology.

"So, spill it! What's your news?" Blake demanded impatiently, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt—a nervous habit that betrayed his excitement.

I took a deep breath, savoring their expectant looks, and blurted:

"MIT. Aced the APs—fives in math, physics, computer science."

Blake froze for a second, as if he couldn't believe it, then let out a yell so loud half the party turned:

"Are you serious?! MIT, man! I told you you'd do it!" He grabbed my shoulders and shook me, as if checking I wasn't a mirage.

Felicia gasped, covering her mouth, then her face lit up with a warm smile that made me blush.

"Adam, that's incredible!" she exclaimed, rushing to hug me. "I knew you could do it! Congratulations!"

"Thanks, guys," I mumbled, feeling my cheeks burn. "And… the grant. Only twenty-two and a half thousand a year."

Blake let out a primal whoop of joy, and Felicia clapped her hands:

"Twenty-two?! That's practically a steal for MIT!" She looked at me with pride. "You're not just a genius—you're our genius."

Then Blake slapped his pocket and pulled out a small bundle—a neatly folded handkerchief. He unwrapped it to reveal an old, worn pocket flashlight, clearly still functional.

"Here," he said, handing it to me, his voice more serious than usual. "I won this back in freshman year at the olympiad. Remember that night? We coded that stupid project till dawn, then ate pizza on the lab floor. It works forever, like us. Keep the handkerchief—lucky charm."

I took the flashlight, a lump rising in my throat. It wasn't just a gift—it was a memory.

"Thanks, man," I said quietly, clapping his shoulder. "I'll keep it safe."

Felicia smiled, watching us.

"You two are hopeless," she said, shaking her head. "Remember ninth grade, when we bet who could solve that physics problem faster, and you, Blake, nearly broke a chair in frustration?"

"And you made us tea afterward because we both lost," I smirked.

"Because I know you two," she retorted, adjusting her glasses. "Without me, you'd still be arguing over whose answer was closer."

We laughed, and in that moment, everything—the party noise, the scent of grass, the stars above—faded into the background of our little world. These two were my foundation, and I was theirs. But a shadow flickered at the edge of my mind, as if this perfect evening was too fragile to last.

"And where are you headed, Blake?" a voice called from the crowd. I recognized the calm, slightly detached tone of Edmund Crowe, whose dark eyes always seemed impenetrable, as if he saw more than he let on.

"Princeton!" Blake declared proudly, squaring his shoulders and flashing a wide grin. His light hair flopped with the motion. "String theory's calling, man! I'll be digging into the universe's foundations till my brain breaks."

"Oh, you're the next Einstein," Felicia teased, winking at him. She adjusted her sleek glasses and added, "I'm off to Harvard. Full scholarship, by the way. Politics is waiting for me to shake it up."

Alexandra Richmond approached—tall, poised, her chestnut curls gleaming under the chandeliers. Her dark blue eyes caught mine, and she said softly but with commanding confidence:

"Yale."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile crossed her lips, as if she held a secret. Behind her, Victoria Locks gripped her champagne flute so tightly her knuckles whitened. Her sharp, envious glance betrayed her feelings—she always aimed to be first, but luck rarely favored her. Edmund merely nodded, maintaining his usual impassivity. Celeste Vayne gracefully adjusted the folds of her silk dress, while Leon Stark, silent and solid as a rock, stood slightly apart, arms crossed.

"Connections, naturally…" I muttered to Blake, lowering my voice.

He snorted, rolling his eyes, and whispered back:

"But she earned those AP fives, too, don't forget. Alexandra's not one to rely solely on daddy's money."

Evelyn Stone sat nearby, hunched over a sketchbook. Her delicate fingers traced precise lines, her light hair falling over her face. She looked up and said quietly but firmly:

"Stanford. Mathematics and physics."

Her calm smile was familiar—we'd often prepped for olympiads together, and I knew she'd earned her spot through sweat and tears. Lucius Frost, sharp and reserved, glanced up from the chessboard he always carried like a talisman. His gray eyes pierced me as he said:

"Columbia. Statistics and economics. Solid choice, Adam. MIT's serious business."

"Thanks, Lucius," I nodded, warmed by his rare praise.

Then Jasper Flame burst from the crowd, a pack of fireworks in hand and a wild glint in his eyes. His red hair stuck out like the fire his name evoked.

"Percons at MIT?!" he bellowed, drawing half the guests' attention. "This calls for a celebration! Fireworks for the genius brainiac Adam!"

"Jasper, don't set anything on fire," Felicia warned, but he just laughed, waving the pack.

"Relax, Fel, I'm in control!" he lied with a grin. We all knew Jasper and control were from different universes.

I glanced around and noticed Gabriel Knight. Usually the epitome of calm and reason, he now leaned against a wall, looking out of place. His dark hair was disheveled, his face paler than usual, his fingers rubbing his temples. His gaze was vacant, as if he saw not us but something beyond.

"Gabriel? You okay?" I asked, stepping toward him.

He flinched, as if snapping awake, and turned his head.

"Adam? Hey," his voice was flat, almost lifeless. "Yeah… no, not really. My head's splitting. Like something's pressing from inside. And this ringing in my ears… probably the weather."

I frowned. Gabriel never complained lightly, and his words unsettled me.

"Maybe you should head home?" I suggested, a knot of worry forming in my chest.

"I don't know," he shook his head, wincing in pain. "No, it's nothing. It'll pass."

I wanted to argue, but someone called him from the crowd. He nodded, promising to be careful, and walked away. I watched him go, a chill running down my spine.

For a moment, the evening felt too perfect. The laughter, toasts, and clinking glasses seemed like a festive mask over a reality too bright to be true. A premonition hung in the air: something was about to happen. The joy cracked, like glass under invisible pressure.

"What the…" Blake started, but his voice trailed off, muffled as if through cotton.

Someone screamed. Anxious murmurs rippled through the crowd. A girl stared at her phone in panic:

"My phone… it won't turn on? What's…"

Phones shut off one by one. Connections dropped, screens froze. Somewhere deep in the neighborhood, a dog howled—long, desperate, as if sensing the world's end. Another joined. Then a third. The howls merged into a chorus.

Felicia pulled out her smartphone, but it wouldn't power on. Her face paled.

"Everything's dead…" she whispered. "This isn't just a network outage."

I felt it too. Inside, it was as if hands had reached into my chest and gripped my heart. The wind stilled. The air thickened, like mercury. My temples throbbed. Space trembled.

And then—the sky.

No clouds. No storm. Just a blinding flash, as if a nuclear eye had opened behind the clouds. It didn't come from one point but from everywhere, as if the atmosphere itself had shattered. My hands instinctively shielded my eyes, but the light pierced through my lids. Through my skull.

Panic flooded the yard like a tide. People surged toward the gates, some fell, others screamed. I stood frozen, unable to move. The sky—no, it wasn't the sky anymore—cracked like glass. Layers of reality crumbled, revealing… something else. Geometries that shouldn't exist. Colors that couldn't be named.

And amidst it all—Gabriel Knight, calm, rational, but now… He stood rigid, his eyes white as a corpse's, glowing from within. He didn't look—he saw. Through us. Through time.

His voice wasn't his own.

"I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to… but there's no other way," a whisper rasped, ancient and carrying something… inevitable. "When it's over—you'll understand."

And everything exploded.

The world struck me. Not my body—my essence. As if the air itself repelled my soul. I screamed—not from pain, but from reality breaking beneath my feet. My legs buckled. My heart raced, threatening to burst. From somewhere, like beyond an event horizon, Blake's desperate voice reached me:

"Adam! Hold on!"

But his words held no weight. I was being pulled—down, or up. Sideways. I couldn't tell. Space became water, and I was a stone sinking into the abyss.

The white light flared again—one last time. And it burned everything away.

Carrying me into realms beyond existence.