The View from the West Egg

The texting became oxygen.

For the next week, Leo’s world expanded beyond the four walls of Room 402. It extended into the digital void where he and "Gatsby"—who eventually admitted his name was Raf—lived.

They texted from the moment Leo woke up to the 5:00 AM vital checks, often falling asleep mid-conversation. They built a world entirely out of blue and gray bubbles.

**Raf:** *Architecture major? That explains the cynicism. You guys stare at concrete too much.*

**Leo:** *It’s not just concrete. It’s spatial theory. It’s how humans interact with their environment. Unlike Music majors, who just strum guitars and hope for the best.*

**Raf:** *Excuse you. I play the cello. It’s sophisticated. It’s the closest an instrument can get to the human voice.*

**Leo:** *Does it sound like whining? Because that’s the human voice I hear most often in here.*

**Raf:** *Only when I play minor scales. 🎻*

They avoided the heavy stuff. Leo didn't talk about how his scholarship was in jeopardy if he couldn't finish his models. Raf didn't talk about why he was a "frequent flyer." They existed in a bubble of banter, dissecting the hospital ecosystem like spies.

**Raf:** *Nurse Brenda is eating a donut at the station. I can see her from my window.*

Leo sat up, craning his neck. His room faced the courtyard, and across the gap was the West Wing.

**Leo:** *I can see the station, but I can't see you. Which floor?*

**Raf:** *Fourth. Same as you. Just... better views. I can see the Observatory.*

The Campus Observatory. It was the jewel of the university—a copper-domed building on the highest hill of the campus, housing a massive telescope. Leo had meant to sketch it all semester but never found the time.

**Leo:** *I’m jealous. I’m staring at a brick wall and a dumpster.*

**Raf:** *Let’s play a game. At 9:00 PM, flash your room light. I’ll look for you.*

The anticipation was ridiculous. Leo felt like a teenager waiting for a date. At 8:59 PM, he maneuvered his crutches to the light switch.

**Leo:** *Ready?*

**Raf:** *Eyes peeled, Old Sport.*

Leo flicked the switch on and off, three times.

He pressed his face to the cold glass of his window, scanning the rows of dark windows across the courtyard.

There.

In the West Wing, four rooms from the left, a light blinked. One, two, three times.

It was a connection. A physical tether of photons bridging the gap between Orthopedics and... whatever was in the West Wing.

**Raf:** *I see you. You’re the one standing like a flamingo.*

**Leo:** *I have a cast, jerk. You’re the one... what are you doing? Is that a dance?*

Through the distant window, Leo could see a silhouette moving. It was blurry, but the figure was swaying, arms raised.

**Raf:** *I’m conducting. Tchaikovsky. You should feel honored.*

Leo pressed his hand against the glass. The silhouette stopped moving.

**Leo:** *It’s good to see you, Gatsby.*

**Raf:** *Likewise, Nick.*

It was intimate in a way Leo hadn't expected. He didn't know what Raf looked like—just a shadow and a voice in his head—but he knew Raf hated peas, loved vintage sci-fi, and was terrified of thunderstorms because they reminded him of MRI machines.

Leo was falling. He was falling for a silhouette in a window, and for the first time, he didn't care about the plan or the architecture review. He just wanted to keep the signal alive.