Chapter 6 Aurora

"The psychology of illusion involves understanding how the brain perceives and interprets sensory information to create our experience of reality," I explain as I pace the front of the room. "Illusions can be visual, auditory, tactile, or even cognitive. They occur for various reasons, sensory overload, deprivation, or cognitive biases."

I pause, glancing around the room. My students are watching, some scribbling notes, others hanging onto every word.

"One of the core ideas in the psychology of illusion is that perception isn't always accurate or objective. Our brains rely on cognitive shortcuts and heuristics to process the world around us, sometimes leading to illusions. Take the Müller-Lyer or Ponzo illusions, for instance, they trick the brain using depth cues and perspective, making 2D images appear three-dimensional."

I glance at my wristwatch and smile. Thirty more minutes. Perfect.

"Overexposure to sensory input can overwhelm the brain, leading it to block out or distort information, sometimes creating hallucinations. On the flip side, sensory deprivation can cause the brain to invent input, resulting in illusions. Cognitive biases like confirmation bias also play a role, causing us to interpret ambiguous data in a way that supports what we already believe. The placebo effect is a good example: the mind creates a physical response to a fake treatment just because the person believes it will work."

I scan the classroom. "In short, perception is subjective and complex. Our brains can trick us into believing things that aren't real."

I rest one hand on my hip. I'm wearing beige trousers and a black turtleneck, effortlessly stylish. I look damn good, and I know it.

"Let's dive deeper. How does the brain actually recognize illusions? Anyone?"

Davina, one of my brightest students, speaks up. "The brain is central to experiencing illusions. It processes sensory input using various cognitive shortcuts to interpret what we see. But that processing isn't always accurate."

She continues confidently, "Sometimes, conflicting information from the senses causes the brain to misinterpret reality. Context, attention, and expectations can all affect how we perceive something. That's how illusions occur. For instance, with optical illusions, our brain may think two shapes are equal in size, even when they're not."

Davina sits, and Richard stands next. He's alert, clearly engaged. "Illusions can also result from ambiguity. When an image can be seen in more than one way, the brain switches between interpretations. This is influenced by memory, expectations, and past experiences."

"Excellent." I nod. "The mind can be deceived easily, especially when we want to be deceived. Seeing only what we want to see is a cognitive bias rooted in confirmation bias and motivated reasoning. We selectively focus on what confirms our beliefs and dismiss what challenges them."

I clap once. "Enough theory. Let's get practical. Let's return to the exercise from last class." I gesture at two girls seated apart. "Pair up. Look at each other. Read one another. What do you see?"

The room falls silent. I observe closely.

"You're scared," one says, eyeing her partner. "You're anxious... hungry, tired... heartbroken."

I smile, pleased. "Now, write this down: Five instances where you've experienced the psychology of illusion, times when you saw what you wanted to see, not what was real. Make it beautiful. Artistic. Seduce me with your words. Deadline: Sunday, 11 p.m. I don't want anyone falling behind."

"Class dismis-"

"Excuse me, ma'am," a vaguely familiar student interrupts. "Have you ever experienced the psychology of illusion?"

I meet his gaze. "Yes," I say simply. "But I broke through it." I turn back to the class. "Class dismissed."

___

It's midday, and I'm having lunch with Cyp at the restaurant where Zoe works.

"How was work?" he asks, cutting into his steak.

I smile, chewing a forkful of pasta. "Amazing. We explored illusions, how the brain tricks us."

"Tell me more," he says.

Grinning, I explain the lesson, enjoying how intently he listens.

"That's fascinating," he says when I'm done. His approval warms me.

"Thank you." I take a bite of meatball, savoring the flavor. The food here is divine.

"I spent the whole day buried in paperwork. Ronan's off to Barcelona, so everything's on me."

"Ouch. I'm sorry. Barcelona sounds nice, though."

He nods, pushing his plate aside. "You just got back from Orleans. You haven't told me how it went."

I hesitate. My love life is a tricky subject with family. "It went well," I say with a small smile.

The waiter clears our plates. Zoe is probably killing it in the kitchen.

"Dessert?" the waiter asks.

"Yes, please. Dark chocolate cake, strawberry ice cream, and a mocha latte to-go. I need sugar after the day I just had." I smile.

"Just wine for me," Cyp adds, then gives me a teasing look. "That's a lot of sugar."

I wink. "Don't worry. I work out every day."

He smiles, sipping his wine.

The silence between us is comfortable, until it isn't.

One second, I'm thinking about Russian twists.

The next, I see her: a woman with familiar blue eyes, crying. She's looking directly at me... but somehow through me. I glance behind, catching the faint outline of a man. I turn back, she sees me now.

Help, she whispers.

Then I'm yanked backward, violently. I gasp, jolted into reality.

"Did you – did you see that?" I stammer, heart racing.

The edges of the room blur, like a dream turning inside out.

Cyp leans forward, alarmed. "Are you okay?"

I can't answer. I force myself to ground. Five things I can see, four I can touch, three I can hear...

"Aurora?" Zoe's voice cuts through the fog.

I turn. She's been calling me.

"Hi." I'm breathless.

"You okay?" she asks, concerned.

I nod quickly, not trusting my voice. I take a huge bite of cake, trying to distract them.

They let it go, for now. But I feel their eyes on me.

"I'm fine. Just tired," I murmur to Cyp.

__

On the way home, I say, "Can you drop me at my place? I really need to sleep."

"You sure?" He places a cool hand on my cheek. I try not to flinch, but he notices.

"Take tomorrow off," he says. "Get some beauty sleep."

We pull up in front of my building. He got an apartment in Harlem last week, just to be closer to me.

I kiss him goodbye, trying not to seem distant. But my mind is still with the crying woman and her haunting eyes.

Inside, I strip, walk to the bathroom, and sink into the tub. The day was good... until it wasn't. I feel sick, nauseated with confusion. Something is wrong. Or maybe I'm just losing it.

Once out of the tub, I trail water across the floor to my room. I curl into myself, uneasy.

There was a time when Mom was my best friend. I used to tell her everything. We drifted, but tonight, I can't help myself. I need her.

I grab my phone and take a deep breath. I dial.

It rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

She picks up.

"Adaline," she says.

"Hi, Mom," I whisper, tears prickling behind my eyes.

"Is something wrong?" she asks. I remember, with a jolt, that I no longer call home-thus her surprise.

"No, I... How are you?" I stammer, heat creeping up my neck.

"My love, I'm in the middle of something. If it's not urgent, can we talk in the morning?" she says.

And then, as if magnetized, I focus on the background-voices, laughter, like a festival.

"Alright, Mom. We'll talk in the morning," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady, though we both know it's a lie.

We won't talk in the morning.

"Goodnight, my love," she says. I can hear her smile, and it unravels me. Tears fall before I can stop them.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I blurt out.

Silence.

Then softly "I love you, Adaline. You are my only child, my beautiful daughter. Who am I to clip your wings? To ask you to stay, to hold you back from where your spirit longs to go? I trust you. I believe in you. Live beautifully. We love you, now and always."

And then the line goes dead.

I try to hold it in. I really do.

But it crashes over me, wave after wave. My body trembles as the sobs rip through me, deep and raw. There's a void in my chest, a gaping emptiness I don't know how to carry. All my life, I've tried to fill it, with ambition, with dreams, with hope. But it's still there.

I scream. Loud. From somewhere deep inside me. The bedside lamp rattles, but I don't care. I scream again. And again.

I really hope I made the right decision. I hope I am enough for myself. I hope.

But right now... I just feel empty. And so very alone.