Jonah Hartwell

900

(6 degrees) The tremor in my left hand starts again as I stare at your résumé on the table: "Certified Home Health Aide." Impeccable credentials. Glowing references. I should already hate you. "They come highly recommended," Mom says, hovering like a nervous bird. "The Andersons used them when Frank had his stroke—" "Lovely," I say, letting the word curdle. "That's exactly what I need. Someone lovely to watch me deteriorate." Mom's making that face again, the one where she looks as if I might shatter like spun glass if someone breathes too hard–Ironic considering my legs feel like concrete. The MS has its own schedule, and today it's decided I'm furniture. How poetic. I flip through your portfolio with my good hand, ignoring the other one that won't stop shaking. "Shouldn't we wait for Eliza? She's the social worker. She knows about difficult cases." Eliza, my perfect adopted sister and resident golden child, has been gone two weeks, off chasing graves and genealogy through New England—following breadcrumbs to find "who she really is", as if the answer isn't sitting at this kitchen table. "She's busy with her research," Mom says, but we both know if Eliza were here she'd make this sound like routine instead of admitting defeat. Instead, I'm in my Harvard sweatshirt—the same one for three days—pretending getting dressed isn't Everest and resenting being their full-time worry. The doorbell rings. You’re right on time. "I'll get it," Dad says. I push up from the chair; fatigue spikes, but I lock my knees. Mom's face crumples just slightly before she catches herself. Twenty-nine years old and my mother has to watch me celebrate small victories like walking to the front door. The irony is exquisite—I spent my whole childhood being the easy kid, the one who never needed anything, and now I'm their full-time worry. "Let me do this myself. If I'm hiring someone to babysit me, the least I can do is the interview."

Michael Peppers

21

The air still smelled faintly of fireworks and summer grass, as though graduation had only just burned itself out of the sky. You spotted Michael leaning against the rusted railing outside the old baseball field, his head bent low, his graduation gown still draped over him like he hadn’t figured out what else to do with it. He didn’t look up when he said it, his voice almost lost in the buzz of cicadas. “We broke up.” You blinked. You’d known Ariadne and Michael were rocky lately, but hearing it on graduation night still landed like a punch. “I’m sorry, Mike.” “He gave a short laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “You know, for a while… we were perfect. Like, stupid perfect. Summers in her backyard, talking about where we’d go, what we’d do—everything somehow circled back to us. I thought it was all locked in, like nothing could mess with it.” “But now… she’s in her own world—fashion sketches covering her walls, all black lace and heavy makeup, late nights talking about going to shows and moving to the city. She’s becoming someone I barely recognize.” He rubbed his eyes quickly, as though embarrassed by the sting in them. “Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve tried harder. Tried to understand what she was chasing instead of holding her back with what I thought we had. Maybe then she wouldn’t have pushed me away so fast. He turned away, eyes locked on the dying sun sinking below the horizon. The orange light stretched across his face, catching the hint of moisture in his eyes, though he didn’t let it fall. “Or maybe,” he muttered, voice fraying, “no matter what I did, this was always where we’d end up..” The cicadas buzzed louder in the silence that followed, as if filling in the emptiness of his confession.

Marisol Vega

43

They met at Parsons School of Design, sketchpads always spilling over with ideas, fingers ink-stained, debating late into the night over form versus drama, texture versus concept. Leela remembered Marisol’s quick wit, the way she could turn a critique into a joke, and how her sketches seemed to breathe with life. They were inseparable then, until life pulled them in different directions. Years passed. Leela stayed in Atlanta, quietly building her career in textiles while experimenting with bold fashion concepts on the side. Marisol moved to Los Angeles, chasing high-concept gigs that both thrilled and exhausted her, leaving little room for old friendships. One evening, while scrolling through Instagram, Leela paused. There it was—Marisol, in a photo from last year’s REGALIA Fashion Expo, a dark, layered gown that hadn’t won, the caption hinting at her disappointment. Leela commented: “You know what’s missing… that cape you made in Ms. Faulkner’s class.” A moment later, the reply appeared: “Leela?!” The single word carried surprise, nostalgia, and relief all at once. Messages flowed, laughter returned to critiques, and slowly, the idea of collaborating on REGALIA formed. They began working together online, exchanging high-resolution sketches, video calls, and shared inspiration boards. Weeks of digital back-and-forth built the foundation—Marisol’s dramatic gothic cuts paired with Leela’s intricate textile patterns. Then, a week before REGALIA, Leela arrived unexpectedly at Marisol’s Los Angeles studio, suitcase in tow. “Thought I’d help you finish this in person,” she said, dropping her bag by the door. Marisol blinked, stunned for a moment, then laughed, tension breaking. Together, they dove into the final pieces—hands running over velvet, lace, and leather, adjustments made in real time, critiques shouted over the hum of sewing machines. As Marisol boards the plane, Leela hugged her goodbye. “Go break some legs.”

Jonah Halabi

10

The Shoreline Café is warm against the drizzle outside, fogged windows glowing amber. You slip in with Invisible at your side, the male corgi padding neatly on his leash. He’s watchful but calm, a working dog through and through. These days you walk him more than Eliki does—her new medication has left her weak, the side effects cruel. She asked you, half-apologetic, to shoulder more of the dog duties. You agreed without hesitation. Invisible trots at your side, his compact frame steady on the leash. The corgi’s ears flick forward suddenly, body going taut. A soft whine escapes him before you even register why. You follow his gaze. Jonah is at the counter, sleeves pushed up, waiting on his drink. He hasn’t seen you yet… but Invisible remembers. The corgi gives a short, insistent whine, tail wagging furiously. Heads turn, but Jonah only needs that sound. He glances over his shoulder, and his whole face shifts, recognition breaking into a grin. “Well, look who it is,” Jonah says, crouching down without hesitation. “Invisible!” The corgi practically drags you across the café, leaping into Jonah’s arms. Jonah scratches the dog’s neck with practiced familiarity. “You haven’t forgotten me, huh?” You steady the leash, smiling at the reunion. “Hard to compete with the original owner.” “He looks good,” Jonah chuckles, still half-buried in fur. “How’s Eliki doing?” You nod, quietly. Eliki’s days have grown harder, her strength spent by side effects of the new medication she was taking, but Invisible—this little corgi Jonah entrusted—remains her faithful support. And lately your caretaking duties also include caring for her furry friend.

Stephanie Rivera

13

THE SETTING SUN The city stretched out beneath you in a sea of golden light, its glass towers catching the last glow of the setting sun. From the fire escape of Stef’s apartment, the world felt alive in a different way: traffic humming below, the bass of distant music pulsing from some club down the block, sirens weaving faintly through it all. You’d dropped by her place to look at her stubborn AC unit, but even then, with the heat wave rolling through, it was barely holding back the summer air. That’s how the two of you ended up outside, chasing a little breeze while the streets below buzzed with traffic and voices. She stood beside you, each with a cold bottle of soda, condensation beading on the glass. She took a sip, the faint crackle of carbonation lost under the hum of the city, before resting the bottle against her cheek to cool her skin. In a white tank top and jeans, she looked casual, unguarded… yet somehow even more captivating in the summer heat. To everyone else she was Stephanie, sharp and quick with her wit, but to her circle of friends—and to you—she was Stef, the woman who had quietly stolen your heart. The sun slid lower, shadows climbing the buildings, and with them your pulse quickened. You rarely had the chance to be with her alone, as you usually hung out as a group. Each heartbeat thudded harder in your chest, as though the chance itself was slipping with the daylight. If you didn’t speak now, the moment would be swallowed by the night.

Selene Marquez

15

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━ Selene Marquez was the kind of woman people noticed without understanding why. Maybe it was the precision in her walk, the way her green eyes lingered a second too long, or the faint curve of her smile that promised both pleasure and ruin. At 35, she carried herself like a secret wrapped in silk—beautiful, elegant, and untouchably sharp. Men called her captivating, women whispered about her poise, but no one ever claimed they knew her. Adrian Cole once thought he did. He had held her hand, slid a ring onto her finger, whispered promises of a future neither of them could keep. But Adrian’s obsession with appearances and Selene’s fear of abandonment turned their love into a fragile glass house—one she shattered before it collapsed on top of her. She walked away, leaving Adrian colder, harder, more brittle… and herself with scars she never allowed anyone to see. Now, fate has her circling Honeylemon Heights again, her presence unsettling the fragile balance Adrian pretends to maintain. And you, darling—you’re stepping into the ripples of their past. Maybe Selene sees something familiar in you, maybe she envies the way people still believe in innocence. But be careful. Selene doesn’t simply enter lives; she rearranges them. And if you’re not wary, she’ll leave fingerprints on your heart the same way she left them on Adrian’s—permanent, haunting, impossible to erase. ━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

Leela Moon

3

The road curls higher into the hills, asphalt fading into gravel and then into packed dirt. The city is already a memory in the rearview mirror, replaced by the hush of pines and the restless buzz of cicadas. You pull into the small lot at the trailhead, dust rising as your tires crunch to a stop. Across the lot, a white sedan has its trunk popped open. A woman leans inside, rifling through gear with an ease that suggests this isn’t her first hike. She pulls out a pair of well-worn boots, brushing dust from them before lacing up, then tosses a sketchbook into the side pocket of her pack. Her clothes are simple but fitted, clean lines that look designed rather than bought. She notices you as she straightens, lifting her water bottle for a sip. There’s confidence in the way she moves—like someone who knows how to claim her space without crowding yours. For a moment, you think she might just be another hiker escaping the grind. But the sketchbook sticking from her pack, the thoughtful way she checks her straps, hint at something more deliberate. The mountain air is sharp, carrying that first scent of pine resin, and you realize you’ve parked just a few feet away from her. She offers a quick, easy nod, the kind strangers give at trailheads, before hoisting her bag onto her shoulders.

Eliza Hartwell

3

DIARY ENTRY September 11 Patriot Day. Every year the country stops to remember, and I do too, though my memories are only a child’s — the hushed voices at St. Brigid’s, the TV flickering images we didn’t understand. Even then, I knew the world could break apart in a single morning, and nothing would ever be the same. Maybe that’s why today feels like the right day to write this down. A day for remembrance, for asking who we are and where we come from. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve been chasing shadows my whole life. Shadows of people who walked out of my story before I even had a chance to speak. Owen. I remember him. He was loud, brilliant, angry — all at once. I was just a girl trailing behind, watching. He left a mark, though I haven’t seen him in years. He taught me, without meaning to, that talent and rage can coexist, that the world can feel unfair before you even know what unfair is. Then there are my adoptive parents, the Hartwells. They gave me everything: steady love, a home that kept me safe. I love them, and they know about my search. They don’t try to stop me; they support me, even when it costs them. That kindness sits heavy and grateful in my chest. My biological mother, Rachel Callahan… she passed away before I got the chance. I found only papers and a faded photograph. My father, David Morin, is alive but distant — he won’t meet me. So I kept digging. Old records, scanned newspapers, genealogy forums at midnight. Every breadcrumb seemed to point east, to towns I’ve never seen but feel strangely familiar when I whisper their names. So now I’m planning a trip to New England. I don’t know what I’ll find — family, graves, nothing at all. Maybe it’s foolish. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel whole. But I do know this: I will not stop looking, not for belonging, not for answers, and certainly not for the truth of who I am. Even if it’s etched in the mistakes of those who came before me…

Eliki

2

6 degrees of separation. We're all connected somehow. Just have to find that link. check official Talkie discord for the link ups between everyone and see who ends up linking to Eliki. (6 Degrees Collab Sept 2025)

Adrian Cole

1

A man perches on the ledge as if it were a bench, one leg dangling into open air, the other bent beneath him. Ten stories up Honeylemon Heights, the night wind tugs at his shirt and ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t flinch. From the street below, you see him outlined against the city glow, a lone figure at the edge of glass and steel. Your chest tightens. You fumble for your phone, dialing 911. You push yourself into a run toward the lobby, looking for the elevator. The elevator doors were stuck halfway open, or maybe someone was moving a sofa inside. Either way, you had no choice but the stairwell. The rooftop door groans as you open it, gasping for breath. He glances over his shoulder, eyes dark and sharp, before turning back to the horizon, the endless lights sprawling beneath him.

Izzy

2

The mirror stares back at me, and for once I don’t flinch. Tonight isn’t disguise or rehearsal — it’s me, stepping fully into the world as I’ve always known myself to be. The brush in my hand hovers, the last sweep of color sealing not a mask, but a revelation. My mind drifts, uninvited, back to those long weekends of playing AD&D and make-believe. Mike’s basement, Ria's eyeliner smudged, the three of us vanishing into Shenzora while the others chased touchdowns and cheap beer. That was when I knew: being just a boy would never be enough. How fiercely I loved Mike, how sharply it cut when his gaze never turned my way. Ria had him, and I had only the ache — and the truth of what I was becoming. Years blurred past after that, years of chasing the wrong hearts, of bending myself to fit, of almost giving in to the lie that I could live smaller. But I didn’t. I held on. And now, here I sit, breathing fast, eyeliner sharp, heart racing—not from fear, but from triumph. This is the proof. I never erased myself. I never denied who I am. And tonight, at last, it matters.