I gasped. He blinked, pocketed his change, and turned.The Eye Contact Rule
I manage to control my mind power these days. Well, most of the time.
Still, there are moments when it slips, when I’m dragged into something I can’t unsee.
Today was one of those days.
I entered the café, ordered my usual creamy chicken pasta with garlic bread, and scanned the room. One table vacant, dead centre.
My stomach sank.
I hate the centre, surrounded on all sides, trapped in a ring of potential triggers. I can’t risk eye contact. Not even a glance. One slip and I see things. Things I really shouldn’t.
I sat with my gaze locked to the table. Breathe in. Breathe out. I could do this. I would do this.
The waitress arrived. ‘Chicken pasta and garlic bread?’
I nodded, forced a smile, and looked up to thank her.
That’s when it happened.
Behind her, by the till, stood a man settling his bill. Middle-aged, corduroy coat, newspaper in hand. Harmless… until our eyes met.
The sudden flash tore through me… a muffled scream, frantic breath, the sharp tang of iron. A hand clamped over lips. Blood spattering across cold tiles. His hand, steady, deliberate, wiping the blade clean in slow, practised strokes, as if rinsing a dinner knife.
I blinked hard, but the café wasn’t entirely back.
For a moment, the counter was smeared with red, the hiss of the coffee machine warped into a muffled cry. The air smelt faintly metallic and dangerous.
Then the blood was gone. Just steam, the clatter of plates, and quiet chatter.
I gasped. He blinked, pocketed his change, and turned.
The moment shattered like glass.