Milly and Edges

It's been a week and Milly is curious.

Story 2 - "Milly and Tuesday" 
Milly and Edges

         Milly did not search “mind control.”
         She typed:
         Hypnosis eye contact science.
         Then she deleted it.
         Then she typed:
         Power of suggestion psychology.
         That one she left.
         Her laptop screen glowed against the dark of her bedroom. It was late enough that the house had settled into its quiet rhythm — pipes ticking, refrigerator humming, her parents’ television murmuring faintly downstairs.
         She leaned back against her headboard and read.
         Most articles said the same thing.
         Hypnosis required cooperation.
Suggestion worked best on willing subjects.
People were influenced by tone, posture, confidence.
         Nothing said anything about yellow rings.
         Nothing said anything about pressure behind your eyes.
         Nothing said anything about making someone stop breathing like a paused video and then start again.
         She scrolled further.
         Mirror neurons.
Social conformity experiments.
Placebo response rates.
         Her jaw tightened.
         Maybe it was body language. Maybe she was just more observant than she used to be. Maybe people followed cues she didn’t even realize she was giving.
         That would be better.
         That would mean she wasn’t… different.
         She typed one more word before she could stop herself.
         Telekinesis real?
         The search results were ridiculous. Forums. Stage magicians. “Psychic training” courses with dramatic fonts.
         She stared at a pencil on her desk.
         Move.
         Nothing happened.
         She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Of course nothing happened.
         Good.
         She deleted her search history anyway.
         Before she closed the laptop, she made herself think one clear sentence.
         Small tests. Controlled.
         Then she shut it.
The next morning at school, she kept her head down in the hallway, not because she was afraid anymore, but because she didn’t want to waste energy.
         She didn’t know how much she had.
         In second period, she found her opportunity.
         A boy across the aisle from her tapped his pen against his notebook, rhythm uneven and annoying.
         Milly looked up.
         Their eyes met.
         She felt it immediately — the pressure behind her eyes tightening like a muscle flexing.
         Scratch your nose.
         The yellow ring flickered into place around his irises.
         He paused mid-tap.
         His pen stopped moving.
         Then he lifted his hand and scratched the side of his nose once, quick and casual, like he’d just remembered an itch.
         The ring faded.
         He resumed tapping.
         Milly looked back down at her paper.
         Her head didn’t hurt.
         Her heartbeat didn’t spike.
         It had been… easy.
         Maybe he had been about to scratch anyway.
         Maybe.
         She wrote a mental note:
         Small command. Minimal cost.
         Her stomach still twisted slightly.
         But it wasn’t fear this time.
         It was confirmation.
The real test came in English.
         Mrs. Reed believed in participation. That meant reading out loud.
         Milly’s name was third on the list.
         She walked to the front of the room with the paperback held carefully in both hands. She could feel eyes on her — not hostile, not friendly. Just there.
         She began reading.
         Her voice was steady.
         Halfway through the paragraph, someone near the back whispered something. A couple of quiet laughs followed.
         Not cruel. Just bored.
         Her cheeks heated anyway.
         Another whisper. A soft snicker.
         The pressure behind her eyes swelled, sharp and immediate. Not panic. Not rage.
         Exposure.
         She looked up.
         Not at one person.
         At the cluster.
         Three pairs of eyes met hers.
         Stop.
         The thought left her like a pulse.
         The yellow rings appeared — not blazing, not synchronized, but present in more than one face.
         The laughter cut off mid-breath.
         The whispers stopped.
         The room settled into clean silence.
         Milly continued reading.
         Her voice sounded clearer now. Stronger.
         When she finished, Mrs. Reed smiled approvingly. “Thank you, Milly.”
         She returned to her seat.
         No one whispered.
         No one laughed.
         Two students blinked slowly like they were recalibrating. One rubbed his temple. Another glanced around as if trying to remember what he’d been doing.
         Milly’s pulse thudded in her ears.
         They were being rude, she told herself.
         It wasn’t wrong to want quiet.
         It wasn’t wrong to want respect.
         And it had worked.
         That was the part she couldn’t ignore.
         It had worked on more than one person at once.
         Her head throbbed faintly now. Not sharp. Just present.
         She stared at her desk and told herself something steady and calm.
         I didn’t hurt anyone.
         Still, she didn’t look up again for the rest of class.
The call to the counselor’s office came after lunch.
         “Milly Carter, please report to Guidance.”
         Several heads turned.
         Her stomach dipped.
         She walked the hallway slowly, feeling the pressure stir faintly as if anticipating something.
         The counselor’s office smelled like dry-erase markers and peppermint tea.
         Mrs. Alvarez was in her forties, composed, with the kind of calm posture that made other people breathe slower without realizing it.
         “Come in, Melisandria,” she said warmly.
         Milly sat.
         Mrs. Alvarez did not look at a file. She did not start with accusations.
         “I’ve heard this week’s been… a lot.”
         Milly nodded once.
         Silence stretched, not uncomfortable, just deliberate.
         Mrs. Alvarez held eye contact gently. Not challenging. Not sharp.
         Just present.
         Milly felt the pressure build.
         Not because she was angry.
         Because she wanted the moment to shift.
         Look away.
         The thought slipped out.
         The ring flickered around Mrs. Alvarez’s irises.
         It wavered.
         The pressure behind Milly’s eyes intensified sharply — like pushing against something elastic.
         The ring trembled.
         Mrs. Alvarez blinked once.
         Her gaze dipped — just slightly.
         Then returned, steady.
         The pressure snapped back into Milly’s skull.
         A metallic taste flooded her mouth.
         Her vision swam for half a second.
         She swallowed hard.
         Mrs. Alvarez tilted her head slightly. “You don’t like feeling out of control, do you?”
         The question hit harder than the snapback.
         Milly looked down at her hands.
         She hadn’t meant to push that hard.
         She hadn’t meant to push at all.
         “I’m fine,” Milly said, voice even but thinner than she intended.
         Mrs. Alvarez let the silence sit again.
         “I’m not here to force anything,” she said gently. “But if something feels different lately, you don’t have to carry it alone.”
         Carry it alone.
         Milly’s chest tightened.
         She almost looked up again.
         Almost tried to nudge.
         But the memory of the snapback pain stopped her.
         Strong will resists.
         She nodded once. “Okay.”
         Mrs. Alvarez smiled faintly. “My door’s open.”
         The session ended without drama.
         But when Milly stepped into the hallway, her legs felt unsteady.
         Resistance cost more.
         Adults cost more.
         Strong individuals pushed back.
         She leaned briefly against the wall until the dizziness faded.
         Another mental note formed, sharper this time.
         Not everyone bends.
That night, she stood in front of her bedroom mirror.
         Brown eyes.
         No glow.
         She replayed the classroom in her mind.
         The silence falling like a curtain.
         The control.
         She hadn’t forced anyone to betray themselves.
         She hadn’t made anyone do something cruel.
         They were talking.
         She had wanted quiet.
         That was reasonable.
         Still.
         She had changed the atmosphere of a room with a thought.
         And she had liked how steady her voice sounded afterward.
         That part unsettled her more than the power itself.
         Groups were easier.
         Individuals were harder.
         Emotion amplified everything.
         Strong will hurt.
         She rested her fingertips lightly on the sink and met her own gaze.
         “If I’m going to live with this,” she murmured softly, “I need to know the edges.”
         Her reflection didn’t argue.
         Downstairs, her parents laughed at something on television.
         Outside, a car passed.
         Ordinary sounds.
         Ordinary night.
         Milly turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into her room.
         She did not feel afraid anymore.
         She felt aware.
         And somewhere beneath that awareness, small and quiet and not entirely unwelcome—
         she felt capable.
         That was new.
         And she wasn’t sure yet whether that was good.