Two weeks since Mexico. Fourteen days since I made a fool of myself in a restaurant that smelled like cilantro and heartbreak. I've been counting. Not on purpose — my brain just does it, tracking the distance between then and now like maybe if I get far enough away it'll stop hurting.
Spoiler: it doesn't.
I'm in Intro to Microeconomics, surrounded by 200 undergrads, and every single one of them is broadcasting. The guy two rows up is hungover and regretting last night's texts to his ex. The girl next to me is spiraling about a paper due tomorrow — I can feel her anxiety like static electricity against my skin. And the beautiful idiot in the letterman jacket keeps glancing back at me, his thoughts a lazy river of speculation.
Professor Martinez is explaining supply curves, her voice a distant hum beneath the cacophony of two hundred inner monologues. I used to be good at filtering. Before Mexico, I could tune it down to background noise, like a radio playing in another room. Now everything feels louder. Raw. Like the volume knob broke and I can't turn it back down.
I miss the silence.
I hate that I miss the silence.
The guy in front of me shifts in his seat and I catch a stray thought — something about the curve of my neck, wondering what my hair smells like. It's not malicious. It's not even particularly crude by college-boy standards. But I still want to crawl out of my skin.
My phone buzzes. A text from Maeve: You okay? You feel spiky.
I type back: Fine. Econ is just loud today.
Three dots appear, then disappear. She knows I'm lying. She always knows. But she lets me have it anyway, because that's what sisters do.
The campus coffee shop is packed with the lunch rush. Ji-woo found us a corner booth — she always finds the best spots, her locator abilities extending to optimal seating arrangements — and now the three of us are crammed together with overpriced lattes and a shared plate of mediocre scones.
Ji-woo: So Marcus Chen asked about you again.
Priya: Good for Marcus Chen.
Ji-woo: He's cute. Pre-med. Has that whole "gentle nerd" thing going on.
Priya: I'm focusing on school right now. Boys are a distraction.
Maeve snorts into her latte. I can feel her precognitive sense flickering — she's seeing possible timelines where I actually said yes to Marcus, timelines where I let myself try again. She doesn't share what she sees. She never does unless it matters.
Maeve: "Boys are a distraction." That's your official position?
Priya: That's my official position.
Ji-woo: For what it's worth, his thoughts are pretty clean. I overheard him thinking about you last week and it was mostly "she seems smart" and "I wonder if she'd want to study together."
Priya: You were listening to his thoughts? That's my thing.
Ji-woo: No, I was locating his thoughts. There's a difference. I just... happened to notice where his attention was. Geographically speaking.
I throw a piece of scone at her. She catches it and eats it, grinning.
Maeve: You don't have to date anyone. You don't have to do anything you're not ready for. But "I'm focusing on school" is not the same as "I'm healing," and we both know which one is actually true.
Priya: I'm fine.
Maeve: You're not fine. You're functional. There's a difference.
I don't have a response to that. So I drink my latte and pretend the conversation is over, even though we all know it isn't.
The Navy sedan is parked outside our trailer when I get home from class. Black, government plates, tinted windows — the whole cliché. I spot it from half a block away and my stomach drops.
Commander Sarah Webb is waiting on our tiny porch, looking deeply out of place in her crisp uniform against the backdrop of faded siding and potted succulents. She's in her fifties, silver-streaked hair pulled back tight, and her mind is disciplined but not silent — I can hear the edges of her thoughts, carefully controlled. She's had training. Counter-telepathy protocols. The Navy has whole programs for this now.
Webb: Miss Sharma. Thank you for seeing me.
Priya: I don't remember agreeing to a meeting.
Webb: Consider this an informal conversation. May I come in?
I want to say no. But Maeve's voice echoes in my head from last week: The Navy is going to keep coming whether we like it or not. Better to know what they want than to wonder.
I unlock the door and let her inside.
Our living room still looks like a tornado hit it — moving boxes half-unpacked, Ji-woo's art supplies scattered across the coffee table, Maeve's calculus textbooks stacked in precarious towers. Commander Webb surveys the chaos with carefully neutral eyes and sits on the edge of our secondhand couch like she's afraid of catching something.
Webb: I'll get straight to the point. We have a situation that requires your specific abilities.
Priya: Another submarine?
Webb: No. This is internal. We've identified potential security concerns within several classified research programs. Personnel who may be sharing information with foreign actors. We need someone who can... verify loyalties. Quickly and discreetly.
The request sits in the air between us like a dead thing.
Priya: You want me to be a thought police officer.
Webb: I want you to help protect sensitive programs from foreign interference. There's a difference.
Priya: Is there?
Webb's thoughts slip for just a moment — frustration, calculation, a flash of this would be so much easier if they'd just cooperate — before her training kicks back in and the walls go up.
Webb: You'd be compensated generously. And it would go a long way toward building goodwill with the program. The Navy has invested considerable resources in Constellation. Some of my colleagues feel that investment should yield more... reliable returns.
Priya: Let me make sure I understand. You want me to use my telepathy to read the private thoughts of people who haven't consented to being read. To spy on their innermost minds and report back anything you deem suspicious. To violate their mental privacy without their knowledge, for purposes they'd never agree to if asked.
Webb: When you phrase it that way—
Priya: There's no other way to phrase it. That's what you're asking.
I stand up. My hands are shaking slightly, but my voice is steady.
Priya: No.
Webb: Miss Sharma—
Priya: I said no. I won't do it. Not for money, not for goodwill, not for whatever veiled threats you're about to make. My abilities don't give me the right to violate people's minds, and being born in a Navy lab doesn't make me Navy property.
Webb's expression doesn't change, but I feel the shift in her thoughts — surprise, reassessment, a grudging flicker of something that might be respect.
Webb: You understand this refusal will be noted.
Priya: Note it. Put it in my file. I'm sure there's a whole section for "uncooperative assets."
She stands, smoothing her uniform with precise movements.
Webb: You're young. You still think principles are simple. That there are clear lines between right and wrong. Life will teach you otherwise.
Priya: Maybe. But today isn't that day.
I open the door for her. She pauses on the threshold, turning back.
Webb: For what it's worth — and this is off the record — I didn't think you'd say yes. But I had to ask.
Then she's gone, the black sedan pulling away, and I'm alone in my messy living room with my racing heart and my shaking hands and the strange, fierce pride of having said no to something that felt deeply, fundamentally wrong.
Maeve finds me on the back steps at nearly midnight, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the stars. The mobile home park is quiet at this hour — just the hum of distant traffic and the occasional bark of someone's dog.
Maeve: Ji-woo said the Navy came by.
Priya: News travels fast.
Maeve: She felt you get angry from three blocks away. Said you were "broadcasting like a radio tower."
I scoot over, making room. She sits beside me, pulling half my blanket over her legs.
Priya: They wanted me to spy on other programs. Read people's minds without their consent. Report back on anyone who seemed "disloyal."
Maeve: And you said no.
Priya: Of course I said no.
Maeve: I saw it. The timeline where you said yes. Where you let them turn you into what they wanted.
Priya: What happened? In that timeline?
Maeve: You don't want to know.
Priya: That bad?
Maeve: You stopped being you. That's the worst thing that can happen to anyone.
We sit in silence for a while. The stars are sharp tonight, the late March air still carrying winter's bite.
Priya: I'm not fine.
Maeve: I know.
Priya: I still think about him. John. Not because I want him anymore — I think that part is actually healing. But because he was quiet. His mind was the only quiet place I've ever found. And I don't know if I'll ever find that again.
Maeve: You might not. You might spend your whole life hearing everyone's thoughts and never finding another person with natural shields strong enough to give you silence.
Priya: Wow. Thanks for the pep talk.
Maeve: I'm not done. You might not find silence. But you might find something else. Someone whose thoughts you actually want to hear. Someone whose inner voice becomes as familiar and comforting as your own. Someone who isn't quiet, but whose noise feels like... home.
Priya: You see that? In the timelines?
Maeve: I see possibilities. Lots of them. Some are beautiful. Some are heartbreaking. Most are somewhere in between. But in almost all of them — the ones where you end up okay — you're not alone. And the person beside you? They're not quiet. They're just... yours.
I lean my head on her shoulder. She wraps an arm around me.
Priya: I love you. You know that, right?
Maeve: I know. I love you too. Even when you're spiky and broadcasting heartbreak at three hundred decibels.
I laugh — a real laugh, the first one in weeks that doesn't feel forced.
Priya: I really am focusing on school, though. That part wasn't a lie.
Maeve: I know. And that's fine. Heal however you need to heal. Date when you're ready, or don't date at all. Just... don't close the door forever, okay? You're nineteen. You've got so much becoming left to do.
The back door creaks open. Ji-woo appears, holding three mugs of hot chocolate, somehow having located exactly what we needed without being asked.
Ji-woo: Room for one more?
We scoot apart, making space. She wedges between us, distributing the mugs, her presence warm and steady and exactly right.
Three girls on a back step. Stars overhead. Chocolate warming our hands.
I'm not fine. But I'm not alone. And right now, in this moment, that feels like enough.
I'm back in Econ. Same seat, same professor, same two hundred broadcasting minds. The guy in the letterman jacket is still wondering about me. The anxious girl is still panicking about papers. The hungover guy has moved on to regretting a different set of texts.
Nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
This is Marcus Chen. Ji-woo gave me your number (don't be mad at her). I know you're focusing on school, but there's a study group for the Econ midterm on Thursday. No pressure. Just studying. I make really good flashcards.
I don't respond right away. I put my phone back in my pocket and try to focus on supply curves. But I'm smiling slightly — just a little, just at the corners — and when Maeve texts me fifteen minutes later with a simple ? emoji, I know she's seen something in the timelines shift.
I'm not ready. I might not be ready for a long time.
But I'm not closing the door.
Go To >>>
Constellation — Genesis Episode 14: April 15-18, 2026
Previously: After refusing the Navy’s request to spy on other programs, Priya continued navigating college life while healing from her heartbreak over John Brennan. She maintained her public stance of "focusing on school" while privately longing for connection. Meanwhile, the Navy continued viewing the thirty-seven Constellation members as assets to be managed — and perhaps, as the girls are about to discover, as breeding stock for the next generation of psychics. 
<<<Go Back To
Constellation - Depth - Episode 12: March 8, 2026
Two weeks after Mexico. Fourteen days since heartbreak. Priya is counting—not on purpose, but her brain keeps tracking the distance like maybe if she gets far enough away it'll stop hurting.
Spoiler: it doesn't.
Gary Brandt's thirteenth Constellation episode is titled "Silence," and it's a meditation on what happens after the tears dry. When you're back in your routine, pretending you're fine, going through the motions while your heart is still tender and bruised. When the Navy shows up asking you to compromise your ethics. When you have to choose between what you want (silence, peace, relief from telepathic noise) and who you want to be.
This is Priya's episode. Quiet, introspective, achingly honest. No missions. No rescues. Just one telepathic young woman learning that healing looks different than being "fine," and that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is refuse to become who powerful people want you to be.
The episode opens in an economics lecture hall. Two hundred undergrads. Two hundred broadcasting minds. Priya used to be good at filtering—turning the telepathic noise down to background hum. But since Mexico, since John, everything feels louder. Raw. Like the volume knob broke.
Before John: Telepathy was manageable background noise
With John: Blessed silence, a still lake, the ability to breathe
After John: Everything louder, sharper, more overwhelming
This is what makes Priya's heartbreak so complicated. She's not just grieving the loss of a potential relationship. She's grieving the loss of silence. The only mental peace she's ever experienced. And now she's back to drowning in noise, and it feels worse than before because now she knows what she's missing.
At lunch with Maeve and Ji-woo, Priya maintains her mask. Ji-woo mentions that Marcus Chen asked about her again—cute, pre-med, "gentle nerd" vibes. Priya deflects: "I'm focusing on school right now. Boys are a distraction."
Maeve calls her out immediately:
"You're not fine. You're functional. There's a difference." — Maeve
This distinction matters. Functional means you're going through the motions. Attending class. Doing homework. Showing up for coffee. But fine? Fine means the hurt has healed. Fine means you're ready to open back up. Fine means the wound has closed.
Priya is functional. She's nowhere near fine. And pretending otherwise isn't protecting her—it's just delaying the real work of healing.
Then Commander Sarah Webb shows up. Black sedan, government plates, the whole cliché. She has a request:
Read the minds of scientists and researchers in classified programs. Without their consent. Without their knowledge. Report back on anyone who seems "disloyal" based on their private thoughts. Essentially: become a telepathic spy violating the mental privacy of American citizens.
Webb frames it as "protecting sensitive programs from foreign interference." But Priya hears what it really is:
Let me be absolutely clear about why this request is horrifying:
Webb tries to sweeten the deal: generous compensation, building "goodwill" with the program, veiled hints that refusal will be "noted." But Priya sees through it:
This is the most important moment in the entire episode. Priya—heartbroken, lonely, still recovering from rejection—stands up to military authority and says no. Not because it's easy. Not because it's safe. But because it's right.
Webb warns her: "You're young. You still think principles are simple. That there are clear lines between right and wrong. Life will teach you otherwise."
And Priya's response is perfect: "Maybe. But today isn't that day."
Webb also says something telling as she leaves: "I didn't think you'd say yes. But I had to ask."
Translation: The Navy knew this was wrong. They knew Priya would refuse. But they had to try anyway, because they're systemically committed to treating Constellation members as assets to be deployed rather than people with agency and rights.
Priya's refusal doesn't just protect the scientists who would have been violated. It protects her. Because as Maeve tells her later: "I saw the timeline where you said yes. You stopped being you. That's the worst thing that can happen to anyone."
Late that night, Maeve finds Priya on the back steps, wrapped in a blanket, staring at stars. And Priya finally says the thing she's been holding in:
This is the grief underneath the grief. Priya isn't just mourning John the person. She's mourning the silence he represented. The peace. The relief from constant telepathic bombardment. And she's terrified she'll never experience that again.
Maeve's response is characteristically honest but hopeful:
"You might not find silence. But you might find something else. Someone whose thoughts you actually want to hear. Someone whose inner voice becomes as familiar and comforting as your own. Someone who isn't quiet, but whose noise feels like... home."
This is the paradigm shift Priya needs. She's been searching for silence because that's all she's known—noise or blessed relief from noise. But Maeve is offering a third option: chosen noise. Someone whose thoughts aren't an intrusion but a connection. Someone whose inner world you want to know.
That's not the same as silence. It might even be louder. But it's intimate rather than invasive. It's sharing a mental space rather than drowning in it.
Throughout the episode, Priya keeps coming back to John's words from their rejection conversation: "You're still becoming. I've already become."
At first, she hated those words. They felt like "you're not good enough yet." But two weeks later, sitting under cold stars, she's starting to understand:
This reframe is everything. John wasn't saying Priya was inadequate. He was saying she's in process. Still figuring out who she'll be. Still developing her values, her boundaries, her sense of self. And that process is precious. It needs protection. It can't be rushed or frozen.
The Navy wanted to interrupt that becoming. Wanted to turn Priya into a thought police officer before she'd fully decided who she wanted to be. And she refused. Not because she's already become the person she'll be forever. But because she's protecting the process of becoming someone she can respect.
The episode ends with a text from Marcus Chen—the "gentle nerd" Ji-woo mentioned. He asks Priya to a study group. And his pitch is perfect:
Priya's internal response captures the shift that's happening:
And then: "I'm not ready. I might not be ready for a long time. But I'm not closing the door."
She doesn't respond to the text immediately. But she's smiling. And Maeve sees something shift in the timelines—a subtle change, a new possibility opening up.
This is what healing actually looks like. Not dramatic declarations of being "over it." Just small movements toward openness. Just "maybe" instead of "never." Just leaving the door unlocked even if you're not ready to open it yet.
Healing isn't linear. Priya has good moments and terrible moments. She's functional most of the time but breaks down under stars at midnight. That's real. That's honest. That's how grief actually works.
Ethics aren't negotiable just because you're hurting. The Navy timed their request deliberately—two weeks after heartbreak, when Priya is vulnerable and potentially more pliable. But being in pain doesn't make violating others' consent acceptable. Priya's refusal shows that character isn't just what you do when you're strong. It's what you do when you're hurting.
Relief from pain isn't the same as love. This theme continues from the previous episode. Priya is learning that her attraction to John was primarily about the silence he provided, not about him as a person. That's not love. That's just desperate relief from chronic pain.
Chosen family shows up in the small moments. Ji-woo bringing hot chocolate without being asked. Maeve sitting on back steps at midnight. These aren't grand gestures. They're just presence. Just "I'm here." That's what sustains you through grief.
Opening back up is terrifying and necessary. Priya could stay closed forever. Stay "focused on school." Never risk getting hurt again. But that would be choosing safety over living. The flashcards text represents possibility—scary, uncertain, but alive.
This episode raises crucial questions about psychic abilities and consent:
Priya's refusal establishes clear principles:
These aren't just theoretical questions. They're foundational to who Priya wants to be. And her refusal—despite pressure, despite potential consequences—shows she's becoming someone who values others' autonomy as much as her own.
The episode is called "Silence" because it explores multiple meanings:
The episode shows that some silences are worth pursuing, some need to be released, and some are too costly to maintain.
Gary Brandt has written a quiet, introspective episode that serves as the perfect follow-up to Priya's heartbreak. This isn't about moving on or getting over it. It's about learning to function while still healing. About choosing ethics over convenience. About slowly, carefully opening back up to possibility.
The Navy's request could have been handled in a single scene—"they asked, she refused, done." But Brandt gives it weight. Shows how the timing is deliberate. Shows how Priya's vulnerability makes the request more insidious. Shows how her refusal isn't easy or cost-free. Shows that maintaining your principles when you're hurting is harder than maintaining them when you're strong.
And then he ends with hope. Not dramatic hope. Not "she's all better now" hope. Just a text about flashcards and a door left slightly ajar. Just Maeve seeing timelines shift toward possibility. Just Priya smiling for the first time in weeks without forcing it.
Recommended for: Anyone still healing from heartbreak, anyone who's had to refuse powerful people's demands, anyone learning that being functional isn't the same as being fine.
Best read with: Hot chocolate, back steps, stars overhead, and the understanding that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is leave a door unlocked even when you're not ready to open it.
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