Fear

22

Morning arrived slowly, like fog clearing over a lake. I didn't remember falling asleep again, but I must have. The lights were back to daytime brightness, and faint movement beyond the curtain told me the ward was awake.

Somewhere nearby, a cart rattled. Footsteps squeaked on vinyl. Monitors still beeped their indifferent rhythms.

This time, I didn't panic when I woke up. I was still in pain, still stiff and sedated — but the haze had lessened. Enough to register where I was. Enough to remember the flatline and the nurses' words afterwards. It still echoed in my head, Tyler's presence here even when he wasn't physically.

"Morning, Emily," a male voice said softly.

Dr. Thorne stood beside my bed again. His white coat looked more crumpled than yesterday, and there was a faint stubble on his jaw that I hadn't noticed before. He held a tray in one hand — porridge, toast, a banana, and a plastic cup of apple juice. The most hospital breakfast imaginable. But somehow comforting.

"Don't get too excited," he said, noticing my hungry glance at the food. "It's not Michelin-starred. But it'll help get your strength up."

He placed the tray gently on the wheeled table beside me and adjusted the bed controls. The backrest hissed and tilted up slowly. Every joint in my body ached, but I managed not to wince too hard.

"There we go. Better?"

I gave the smallest nod.

"Good." He took the plastic wrap off the porridge. "You don't have to eat everything, but try a few bites, yeah?"

I managed to lift the spoon. My hand shook like I'd never held one before. He observed me — not hovering, but attentive.

After a few mouthfuls and a sip of the apple juice, I paused, my hand now hovering over the toast. I opened my mouth to say something about yesterday, but the words caught in my throat. He spoke before me.

"May I take a look at your arms?" He asked, sitting on the chair beside the bed, approaching my right arm with care. I hummed slightly, nervously watching him. I almost flinched when his fingers brushed my skin, but didn't. He noticed my hesitation and nodded.

"We'll change these once a day for now. They're healing nicely." He paused, a frown furrowing his brows. "I'm sorry you have to go through this."

I didn't respond. Not out of rudeness. I just didn't have the words.

He worked in silence for a while. The ointment stung at first, but the relief that followed was worth it. Fresh gauze. Soft tape. A nurse would've done it colder, faster. He took his time.

"Erm... Tyler visited earlier," Sam said carefully, like he was watching me out of the corner of his eye and gauging my reaction.

The spoon in my left hand paused halfway to my mouth.

"He didn't stay long," he continued, rushing his words a little. His tone went dismissive — or tried to, as if to dampen the impact. But it didn't.

"He just wanted an update. Asked how you were doing. I told him you're improving."

The spoon touched the bowl. I didn't lift it again. Eyes narrowed. Jaw tensed. He suddenly looked nervous.

"He can fuck off."

Sam gave an apologetic look. Not disappointed. Not sympathetic. Not amused. Just human.

I sighed and picked up the banana, peeling it before taking a bite. I chewed it slowly in frustration.

"I know how you feel, Emily," Sam said quietly. But I didn't want his sympathetic words.