Make Me Love Again

Chapter 4

Fyodor realized something early the next morning. When he was lying in bed with his blankets embracing him like a lover—not that he'd ever know what that felt like—existing between sleep and awareness as cars drove by on the street below.

He'd never outright told Nikolai about his amnesia, just mentioning the hospital a while back. Yet, somehow, he must've pieced it together on his own since he explained Fyodor's situation to Sigma.

Fyodor couldn't fall asleep after that, constantly tossing from side to side as he chased sleep.

It's not like he was trying to keep his amnesia a secret. It's just that he'd rather have his private business to himself, like private business.

He closed his eyes again.

However, it was fruitless. Sleep just wasn't coming for him tonight.

With his mind awake and heart rate picking up, Fyodor stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. He found himself in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection and trying to calm down the rising panic that sprung out of the blue.

God, how he hated everything right now.

Why couldn't things go back to the way they were before?

He didn't want to mourn anymore.

He didn't want to pretend that his life was getting back on track, because it wasn't.

Maybe, if he wasn't so terrified, he would've taken a walk.

But no.

It was too dark.

Last time he ended up in a coma.

...

He splashed a handful of water on his face, hovering over the faucet and controlling his breathing before it got any heavier.

It was stupid to be so strung up about Nikolai knowing, and now his brother, Sigma.

...

It was all just so stupid.

Everything was.

________

Fyodor typed in the serial number for the book in his hands, resisting the urge to just lay his head down on the desk and sleep. His eyes were dry and his hair a little frizzy, but he was making due.

Less than an hour ago he started his shift, just a little before noon. Functioning off only a couple hours of sleep and cheap coffee, he'd left his apartment and hid away in the lounge room till his shift.

He was tired, but thankfully his head wasn't pounding.

...

A throat cleared behind him.

Fyodor couldn't help a heavy sigh, setting down the book and spinning around in his old chair. The chair squeaked quietly, and Fyodor stoned his expression as he looked up at an annoyed looking Laurelle.

She had her arms crossed and hair in a neat braid, eyes narrowed.

"Dostoevsky."

Fyodor tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair, blowing a stray strand of hair out of his face.

Again, he contemplated cutting his hair with a random pair of scissors purely out of irritation. Hopefully, he wasn't too impulsive to mess up his appearance until he was able to schedule an appointment.

"Did you need something?" He said, biting out the words as politely as he could, but a certain, displeasing coworker made it incredibly difficult.

"Yes, in fact I did." She grit right back, enunciating with distaste.