short fiction · 2026-10-26

The Titration

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

Dr. Vasquez measured the compound in microliters. Three produced euphoria — the subject described it as "finally being understood." Five brought the expected pair-bonding behaviors: grooming, resource sharing, distress at separation. Seven induced what the ethics board called "pathological attachment" — the subject stopped eating, stopped sleeping, pressed against the barrier until its paws bled.

Nine was lethal. The subject's heart simply stopped, as if it had forgotten why it beat.

She recorded each result in her notebook with the same clinical precision she used for anticoagulants and cytotoxins. The compound had no name yet, only a serial number: OXY-447. Oxytocin analogue, forty-seventh iteration.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: Thinking of you. Dinner?

She stared at the screen. Three microliters. Five. Seven.

She typed back: Yes. 7 pm.

Then she locked the vial in the safe, washed her hands three times, and went home to measure the dose she'd been taking for fourteen months without a protocol, without a control, without any way to know if she was at three, or five, or seven — or if nine was waiting in the next message, the next silence, the next time he didn't reply.