Maya

The low hum of the espresso machine was the only constant in the morning chaos of The Daily Grind. Maya’s fingers moved on autopilot, tamping grounds, steaming milk, her gaze fixed on the stainless steel pitcher. The cold, glossy shell adhered to her pelvis was a familiar, unyielding presence. Three hours. Just keep moving.

She handed a cappuccino across the counter, her smile a thin, practiced line. “Have a good one.” The customer mumbled thanks, already turning away. The queue was five deep. She rang up the next order, her voice flat. “Large oat milk latte. That’s six-fifty.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw her manager, Dave, approaching with his perpetual clipboard frown. He stopped beside the syrup station. “Inventory’s off on the vanilla again, Maya. You’re logging the waste, right?”

“Every drop,” she said, not looking up from the cash register. Her tone was clipped, a defense against conversation. Just do your job and leave.

He lingered, the silence heavy. She could feel the phantom sensation of the portal receiver's cover on her cunt, a constant anxiety even when the portal was sealed. She focused on the feel of the ceramic mug in her hand, warm and solid, a tangible anchor in a body that didn’t fully feel like her own anymore. The bell on the door jingled, announcing another wave of customers. She turned back to the machine, her shoulders tense.

The stale, recycled air of the lecture hall was thick with the smell of old textbooks and student fatigue. Maya sat in her usual spot, three rows from the back, left aisle. The hard plastic seat pressed the glossy white shell of the Portal Panties firmly against the chair, a constant, cold reminder. Her notebook was open, her pen poised over a blank page. Professor Gupta’s droning voice on synaptic transmission was a distant buzz. Focus. Just take the notes.

A student to her right, a guy in a hoodie she vaguely recognized from lab, shifted in his seat, his elbow brushing her arm. She flinched, pulling away sharply. He gave her a sidelong, confused glance. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s fine,” she said, her voice low and tight. She stared straight ahead at the projection screen, her jaw clenched. Her bladder was a dull, persistent ache. She’d pressed the button on the device forty minutes ago, a silent, frantic plea into the void. No response. The need was a hot, pressing weight low in her abdomen, competing with the icy dread of the portal’s potential activation at any moment.

Gupta paused, adjusting his glasses. “So, if the action potential is inhibited here,” he said, pointing at a diagram of a neuron, “the entire cascade fails.” He looked out over the sea of glazed eyes. “Maya? You usually have an opinion on this. Thoughts?”

Every head in her immediate vicinity turned slightly. Heat prickled up her neck. Don’t stand up. Don’t move suddenly. She cleared her throat. “The myelin sheath degradation would have to be systemic for that level of failure,” she managed, her words precise and clipped. “A single lesion wouldn’t do it.”

“Correct,” Gupta said, nodding before moving on. She let out a slow, controlled breath, her fingers trembling slightly around her pen. The pressure in her bladder spiked, a sharp twinge that made her thighs tense against the seat. She pressed her knees together under the desk, a futile, instinctive gesture. The clock above the door ticked forward another minute.

The food court was a cacophony of echoing chatter, clattering trays, and the greasy smell of fried food. Maya sat stiffly on a hard plastic bench, a half-eaten slice of pizza congealing on the tray in front of her. The glossy white device was a cold, seamless plate under her jeans, a secret she carried into the bright, public space. Her friend, Chloe, was animatedly dissecting a recent dating app disaster across the table.

“...and then he said his dog could sense negative energy!” Chloe exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “So I left. Obviously.”

Maya forced a short, dry laugh. “Sounds about right.” She took a sip of her soda, the carbonation sharp on her tongue. The bench was unforgiving, transmitting every vibration from the bustling court directly into the sealed shell against her pelvis. Just act normal. It’s just a normal day.

Another friend, Jenna, slid into the seat beside her, shopping bags rustling. “Found the most amazing boots on sale,” she said, nudging Maya’s shoulder. “You okay? You’re all tense.”

“Fine,” Maya said, the word coming out too quickly. She shifted her weight, trying to alleviate the persistent, low-grade awareness of the device. “Just tired. Long shift this morning.”

“You always look like you’re waiting for a sniper,” Chloe teased, but her eyes held a flicker of concern.

Maya shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Student budget. It’s a permanent state of alarm.” She focused on the sticky texture of the table under her fingertips, the shrill ring of a distant phone, anything to ground herself in the mundane. Her own laughter sounded hollow in her ears as Chloe launched into another story, the normalcy of the moment a fragile shell over the constant vulnerability beneath her clothes.

The blue glow of the laptop screen washed over the small, cluttered living room. Maya sat at one end of the worn sofa, a textbook open but ignored on her lap. Liam was a warm, solid presence at the other end, his arm stretched along the back cushions behind her. Some British baking competition played silently; they’d muted it twenty minutes ago. The familiar weight of the device was a barrier she felt more acutely with him than anywhere else.

His fingers brushed a stray hair from her shoulder, his touch lingering. “You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said, his voice soft.

“Long week,” she murmured, not looking away from the screen where a contestant was frantically icing a cake. Don’t touch me. Please don’t. She could feel the phantom potential of the portal’s cover being removed, a fear that now poisoned even simple contact.

He shifted closer, his thigh pressing against hers through their jeans. The pressure translated directly through the hard shell to her pubic bone. “We don’t have to watch this,” he said, his meaning clear. His hand moved from the couch back to gently knead the tight muscle of her neck.

Her entire body went rigid. “I’m really tired, Liam.” The words were sharp, a door slammed shut. She felt him freeze, his hand stopping its motion.

He pulled back slowly, the warmth retreating. The silence that followed was louder than the show. He let out a quiet, frustrated breath. “Okay,” he said, the single word heavy with confusion and hurt. He thinks it’s him. The guilt was a cold stone in her gut, but it was safer than the truth. She kept her eyes fixed on the silent, smiling bakers on the screen, building a perfect, fragile world.