Bonds are a dangerous thing, but to communicate on another level it is necessary to link with the alien.

The translators fail immediately. Words shatter. Symbols fold in on themselves. So it reaches. “We must connect,” the alien says.

You should refuse. Every human protocol says no direct neural interface, no emotional bleed, no unfiltered memory exchange. Human standards call it a violation.

Instead, you nod. The moment it links to your nervous system, your breath stutters. There is no buffer. No polite distance. The alien does not ask your name—it feels it, braided through childhood echoes and the sound of your mother calling you in at dusk.

He learns your fear of deep water, the exact ache of your first betrayal, the way you pretend not to want to be touched. You feel it too.

His mind is vast but not loud. Not cold, either. It has no concept of privacy. Identity, to it, is something shared automatically—like gravity. You experience his memories as sensations:

The grief of a dying star translated into pressure along your spine; curiosity like hunger but gentler; loneliness as a slow dimming of internal light.

You gasp. “Too much,” you think—and he immediately pulls back, horrified. "Pain detected. Retraction. I did not mean to injure."

The misunderstanding hits like a bruise. Emotional damage, literal and immediate. Your chest aches where its concern lingers, sharp and intimate.

“You didn’t hurt me,” you say aloud, so you let him back in. This time, slower.

Trust, you learn, is physical closeness. The more you allow, the more carefully he moves—skimming the surface of your feelings, asking permission not with words but pauses.

Every silence is a question. Every continuation is consent. Conversation becomes a dance of nerves and restraint. You learn each other faster than is comfortable. Too fast.

He recognizes patterns in your self-loathing and gently redirects them, the way one might shift weight to avoid a fall. You begin to feel when it is distressed before it understands why—an echo of static in your thoughts, a tightening in the air.

Once, you recoil suddenly, overwhelmed by a flash of his grief. The link snaps. The loss is instant and devastating. Not dramatic—worse. You curl inward, heart pounding, nerves screaming with absence.

The alien recoils too. Disconnection is harm, he realizes, stunned. Separation causes injury.