Skies & Florets

IV. Battlefield

LILAC

I blinked slowly, my eyelids feeling heavy as if they were weighed down by the very fabric of my dreams. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air, and I struggled to place myself in this unfamiliar space. Confusion swirled in my mind like a fog, blurring the edges of my thoughts.

Where am I?

As my vision adjusted to the dim light, I began to make out the shapes around me. The walls were painted a calming shade of blue, the f a i n t hum of machines breaking the silence. But it was the figure beside me that drew my attention, grounding me amidst the haze.

I visioned Quentin who is sitting in a chair, his face a mask of worry, his brows knitted together in concern. Relief washed over me at the sight of him, but it was tinged with confusion. "Quentin?" I croaked, my voice rough and dry.

He leaned forward, his eyes lighting up with a mix of joy and relief. "Lilac! You're finally awake!" He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. "You're in a private hospital. France, my colleague from medical school, is working here."

"France?" I murmured, trying to piece together the fragments of memory from earlier. The last thing I remembered was collapsing in the flower shop, a cloud of panic surrounding me as everything faded to black.

"Yes, we graduated together," he said, his voice steady but his eyes betraying his anxiety. "He's a great doctor, and he'll take care of you."

Just then, the door swung open, and a man in a white coat entered, exuding confidence and professionalism. "Lilac! It's good to see you awake," he said, flashing a warm smile that quickly faded when he saw Quentin's worried expression.

"Doctor France," Quentin said, his tone serious. "What's going on? What happened to her?"

France's expression shifted, and I could feel a tension building in the air. "I'm afraid I have some concerning news," he said, his voice solemn. "Lilac, I'm sorry to say that you're ill."

I looked between the two of them, confusion turning to dread. Quentin let out a nervous laugh, his attempt at lightening the mood clear. "Come on, that's not funny, France."

But when I turned to look at Quentin, I could see that my expression didn't match his response. His laughter faded as he met my gaze, the gravity of the situation settling in. My heart raced as I tried to process what France was saying.

"Lilac," France continued, "I believe you've been feeling unwell for a while now, and you haven't consulted anyone about it."