The itch

It’s back.

That damn itch at the back of my head.

Not a real itch—more like a static hum just beneath my thoughts, a presence pressing against my mind like an uninvited guest. I’m so used to it now but appearing after a week of nothing can still trip me up.

I exhale slowly, fingers tapping against my desk as the voice of yet another executive drones on. The conference room screen flickers, displaying an agenda I stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. Words like optimization, budget constraints, and stakeholder expectations blur together into meaningless corporate drivel.

At least I’m here and not in the lab. That’s the one upside of getting promoted—I’m too busy with meetings to be a liability to my team’s research.

“Nate. Nate Kesler, are you there?”

Shit.

I jolt upright in my chair. “Yes, ma’am.”

Across the screen, my direct superior, Dr. Patel, raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t have time for slackers, and I am toeing the line.

“The investors want an update. Will you have the simulations ready for tomorrow?”

My brain scrambles for a response that doesn’t make me sound like I’ve been mentally checked out for the last half hour.

“I’m on it,” I say, forcing confidence into my voice. “It’ll be ready.”

It won’t. Not unless I give up sleep. Again.

Why do I always do this to myself?

Now the lab is out of the question—again. Another late night in my office, running simulations while pretending I have my life together.

Maybe I should have stayed in med school. A safe, predictable life. But no, I had to chase something bigger. I had to dive into astrophysics, cosmic phenomena, and theoretical nonsense that keeps me awake at night. Why did I choose ‘build my major’ programme? A career switch and a burning existential crisis? Fantastic choices all around.

I trudge down the hall toward my office, past rows of glass-walled labs where the real work is being done. My team is still in there, buried in data, arguing over radiation patterns, gravitational fluctuations—anything that might give us a glimpse into the unknown.

They think I’m leading them toward something groundbreaking. To be frank this is such a mess of everything that I'm happy there was no audit recently. We would be screwed and laid off.

I think I might be losing my mind.

At least the snacks are good. And the people. I should appreciate them more. It’s a miracle they trust me to oversee them.

I collapse into my chair, rubbing my temples. The screen in front of me hums softly, the next simulation queued up. Thirty minutes until it’s done.

Thirty minutes of me time.

Alright. Let’s see what we’ve got.

“The universe is finite.”

That’s the working theory, at least. Not groundbreaking. Not revolutionary. Maybe unorthodox in recent times? But it’s the way I got here that bothers me.

The itch.

Yeah. I know how that sounds.

I have no explanation for it—this weird, persistent sensation that pulses in my head whenever I land on an idea. It’s not a voice, not a gut feeling. More like a metal detector, beeping louder the closer I get to something.

I just don’t know what.

And here’s the kicker: in some messed up way it’s always right.

At some point, I stopped questioning it. I started following the hints, nudging my team in directions I couldn’t logically justify. Not openly, at least. I made sure the data could support the ideas before presenting them.

But let’s be honest—I’ve been faking it.

My entire career, my entire reputation, has been built on an instinct I can’t explain. The itch led me here. To this department, to this research, to chasing after something no one else has even considered.

Some scientists spend their careers trying to prove a single hypothesis. I keep throwing ideas at the wall, waiting for the itch to tell me when I’ve hit something important.

And now?

Now it’s screaming.

It started the moment we began looking at fluctuations—tiny, imperceptible shifts in radiation, the kind of anomalies that should be meaningless. The itch flared up so hard I almost fell out of my chair. That was the moment I knew:

There’s something there.

Where?

Good question. I asked myself the same thing. And, guided by the itch, I landed on the most insane answer yet:

“Outside the universe.”

Might as well start rolling a tin foil hat now.

If I tell my team that, I’ll be laughed out of the building. But the numbers don’t lie. Something is pulling at the edges of our observable universe, something we shouldn’t be able to detect. It’s faint, just a ripple. A leak, almost.

And if there’s a leak…

Something might be slipping through.

Beep.

Simulation’s done. Me time is over. Just like that, I’m back to pretending I know what I’m doing.

I sigh, stretching my arms before getting up to check the results.

Whatever I find, one thing is certain:

I should definitely be in an institution.

###

Finally, a day off.

And what do I do with it?

Go to the library.

Not the gym. Not the bar. Not even catching up on sleep like a responsible adult. Seems like a respectable pastime, right? No, I spend my free time testing the itch like it’s some kind of game.

At least it’s better than doomscrolling or binge-watching another show I’ll forget in a week. Besides, books have a funny way of leading me toward something interesting. The itch makes sure of that.

The routine is simple. Walk in, drift through the aisles, let the itch do its thing. Headphones on, music playing, brain halfway out the window. It’s like playing hot and cold with a force I can’t explain. When I’m onto something, everything goes fuzzy—like an old radio losing signal in a tunnel.

Today’s tour begins as usual.

Kids’ section—nothing.

Teens—nothing.

No surprise there. Would be very weird if the itch had a thing for picture books.

Sci-fi, history, science? Dead silence.

I slow my steps as I approach the last section. The one I tend to avoid.

Self-help and spirituality.

Yeah. That section.

Not exactly my usual haunt. The last time I picked up something from here, it was a half-baked meditation guide that promised inner peace through essential oils.

Still. The itch has led me to weirder places.

I step into the aisle, scanning the shelves out of habit.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Fingers drumming against my pocket, keeping time with the song playing in my headphones. A mindless motion. Until—

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

I flinch.

There it is. That familiar, static surge.

I freeze, glancing at the nearest shelf, my pulse kicking up just slightly.

Unlock Your Mind and Transcend.

…Huh.

Really?

The itch is pointing me toward this?

Not a physics journal. Not some obscure mathematical theorem.

But this.

I hesitate, eyeing the book like it might explode if I touch it.

The itch has been right before. Usually. Sometimes. I guess it did help me pass my exams a while back so I should trust the process.

Might as well see where this goes.

I reach out and pull the book from the shelf.

###

Apparently, the itch has a thing for new-age spirituality.

Fantastic.

Just what I needed.

I drag my hands down my face and glance at my desk, where Unlock Your Mind and Transcend sits beside a thick stack of notes on quantum mechanics. If anyone walked in right now, they’d assume I’d had some kind of existential breakdown.

And honestly? They wouldn’t be wrong.

Because the second I put that book next to my actual research, the static went wild.

Not just the usual fuzzy hum. This was something else—like a signal locking onto a frequency. I don’t know what I expected, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

I pick up the book again, flipping through the pages with the same level of enthusiasm one might have for assembling Ikea furniture without the instructions. The writing is… a lot. More poetic nonsense than actual science. But buried in all the drivel, something keeps popping up.

Quantum consciousness.

I sigh, tossing the book onto the desk and rubbing my temples.

Of course.

I never thought I’d have to take a term like that seriously. A cheap trick that turns science into a marketing gimmick. Usually, I’d dismiss it outright.

But the itch isn’t letting me.

I sit back in my chair, staring at my notes. The itch is reacting hard to this. And somehow, the conclusion—if you can even call it that—is clear.

I need to hook myself up to a machine.

Yep. That’s where we’re at.

I exhale sharply and lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk.

I have no clue how that’s supposed to work. What kind of machine? What would I even be measuring? What am I even looking for?

But at this point, I’m just throwing ideas at the itch and seeing what sticks.

So I keep going. I spend the next few hours flipping between my notes, that damn book, and whatever dictionary definitions I can find. Half of it makes no sense. Half of it feels like I’m grasping at air.

And yet—this is what the itch wants.

So now I have to make it happen