SHARPER || Chishiya Alice in Boarderland

-42- waking up

Friday mornings should feel like relief. Like a fresh breath of air that the week's over and the weekend's starting.

But they don't.

The morning light sneaks in through the gap between my curtains, pale and cold, spilling across the floorboards and catching on the empty coffee cup from last night. The air smells faintly of dog fur and detergent. Home, I guess. But there's a nervous pit in my stomach that won't let me breathe right.

Nio's already gone, her sneakers missing from the doorway, Goro's leash too. She left a note on the counter, written in her quick, half-slanted handwriting:

______________________________________

Dog school until two! Don't forget to eat. Kenji doesn't have school today, so let him sleep in. Love you! (And maybe smile once today?) — N. & 🐾
______________________________________

She even drew a little paw print next to it. I stare at it too long before folding it in half and shoving it into my pocket.

Kenji's asleep on the couch, curled up like a question mark, hair sticking out in all directions. His schoolbooks are scattered across the coffee table, along with a half-eaten bowl of cereal that's turned soggy. He looks peaceful. Young. Like he should.

And that makes me smile. 

And I should crawl back into bed. It's my day off. But the thought of lying there, alone, trapped with my thoughts—it's unbearable.

So I grab my volunteer badge from the counter. The thin plastic card glints in the morning light, still carrying my old photo from before the bombing. My smile looks foreign. Then I tie my hair back in front of the mirror, avoiding my own eyes. The hoodie I throw on still smells faintly of disinfectant from yesterday.

I grab my bag and the small paper envelope from the kitchen counter from when I'd stopped by the pharmacy before coming home last night. Burn salve, gauze, antiseptic wipes. Last one's ran out too quick. Supplies.

That's what I tell myself, though deep down, I know it's an excuse.

An excuse to see him again. Or maybe to prove to myself I don't need to.

Either way, the elevator at the hospital seems faster today.

I sign in at the front desk, the nurse handing me a badge with an easy smile. I mumble something about being assigned to Ward B again, and she waves me through.

The corridors hum with fluorescent light and muted conversation. That sterile, low-level chaos of a hospital: nurses gliding past with clipboards, a child's laughter echoing faintly from pediatrics, the sound of someone's IV stand rattling down the hall. It's all familiar. And yet, the moment I step onto that floor, my stomach knots.

I tell myself it's the smell of antiseptic.
Not him.
Definitely not him.
Room 16.

So I start with the others first. Routine helps.

Rin smiles faintly when I hand her the cherry lollipops I restocked, the same ones she quietly collects in the drawer beside her bed. "You remembered," she whispers, her voice rough.

"Of course I did," I say softly. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Next room, Mr. Ota, the elderly man with the cast, wants to talk about his wife again. I help him dial her number, listen while they bicker lovingly about her cooking.

Room 13, the kid with the TV. I'd brought him a stack of old DVDs—animated films and one ridiculous superhero movie. His grin is worth the ache in my chest.