Untitled Madness

In the Clouds

I've never been much of anything. Never needed to be. Why would I? Desire? Comfort? Those things belong to people who are warm and bright. I've always been told I'm cold. It seeps in, that chill, the kind you don't notice until it's too late, like a room you've been sitting in for hours that somehow feels emptier with each passing second. Why do I need to be smart when there's always been someone else to think for me, someone else to decide? Every decision—tied up, neat and predictable. So why in the world would I think this time would be different?

Different. Like I even know what that means. Maybe it's the sterile smell clinging to the air, wrapping itself around my skin, the rhythmic, mechanical beeping that matches the sluggish beat of my heart. My head is heavy, too heavy, like I've been carrying something for far too long. And yet... nothing. Just gray. Blurred shapes, muffled sounds. I can't grasp it. I try, I really try. I push against the fog but the harder I think, the further away everything feels.

There's two people in front of me, whispering, their voices low and serious. They won't look at me, like if they avoid my eyes long enough, I'll disappear. But I'm still here. I'm still here. I want to scream at them, to make them see me, but my voice... it's gone. It's as faint as an ant crawling across the floor—small, insignificant, invisible.

Isn't it funny? I can remember what an ant is. I can remember I'm in a hospital. I can remember that I feel lost—so, so lost. But I can't remember how I got here. I can't remember anything that actually matters. Amnesia. That's what it is, isn't it? Temporary or not... I have nothing but the present, and it's slipping through my fingers like sand.

"Hi."

A voice breaks through the fog, pulling me back. Green eyes. The man who was here when I woke up. He's standing close now, his gaze softer than the sterile world around us.

"Hi," I whisper. My voice feels fragile, like it might shatter if I speak too loudly, like I might shatter with it.

"Do you know who I am?" His voice is gentle, but there's something else too, something careful, like he's afraid of my answer.

"Not at all," I say, and a dry chuckle slips out of me, surprising even myself. The sound feels foreign, like it doesn't belong to me. But he doesn't seem offended. In fact, he laughs too. The first smile I've seen since opening my eyes.

It's strange, feeling this hollow yet finding moments like these, fragments of light in the endless gray. But the fog is still there, heavy and relentless, and despite the smile, the laughter, I know deep down that I'm still lost. Even if I could remember, would it change anything?

I don't know why, but that smile makes my chest tighten. Not in a good way. It feels like someone's wrapped a band around my lungs, squeezing tighter with every second that passes. I want to ask him to stop smiling. It feels wrong, like it doesn't belong in this place, like he's trying too hard to make things seem normal when they're anything but.

I try to focus, to ground myself, but the haze in my head keeps thickening, swallowing every coherent thought like quicksand. How can I know what normal is when everything I am is slipping away?

"I'm sorry," I mutter, staring down at my trembling hands. "I... should remember you, right?"

He watches me carefully, his smile fading a little. There's something behind his eyes now—something darker, like he's carrying a weight I can't see. "No. You don't have to be sorry."

But I do feel sorry. Sorry for not being who I'm supposed to be. For not knowing who that is. And maybe most of all, sorry for the part of me that feels relieved about it. The part that whispers: Maybe it's easier this way. Maybe it's better not to remember.

There's a silence hanging between us, and the only thing breaking it is the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. It's the only thing that seems real. The rest of the room is just... shadows. Shadows I can't quite grasp.

"I don't know if I want to remember," I admit quietly. It feels like a confession—like I've done something wrong. The green-eyed man's face flickers, just for a moment, but he covers it quickly.

"You don't have to decide that now."

But the truth is, I don't think I ever want to decide. What's waiting for me when the fog lifts? What if I don't like who I am, who I was? What if the memories come flooding back, and I hate every single one of them?

He's watching me, waiting for something I don't have the strength to give. Maybe a hint of recognition. Maybe an apology for not being whole.

But there's nothing. Nothing but the sterile smell of antiseptic, the soft hum of machines, and the crushing emptiness in my chest.