Shards of Memory [English - Under Revision]

Chapter 16: Lost

Skylane — Point of View

I let out a long breath and watched a raindrop crawl down the window, leaving a crooked, watery trail. Hospitals have a way of stretching time until it's threadbare. A week in this room felt like a month.

Pieces of me had come back—faces from childhood, the smell of chalk in a cramped classroom, the wobble of training wheels. But everything after elementary school? Blank. As if someone had scissored the film and left only static.

"What's with that face?"

I turned. A tall boy leaned in the doorway, carrying a paper bag like it was a peace offering.

Blaise.

He crossed to the small side table, set the bag down, and dropped into the chair beside my bed. Close enough that I could see the faint bruising at his knuckles, the cut that had almost healed along his cheekbone.

"Nothing dramatic. I'm just bored," I said, pouting before I could stop myself.

He snorted and, with zero warning, ruffled my hair. I glared. He smirked—easy, familiar, like he'd done it a thousand times. For a second something fluttered under my sternum. Irrational. Annoying.

"Stare later," he said, teasing. "I might melt. Here." He nudged the bag toward me, grinning too big for a hospital room.

I peeked inside. A shirt, jeans... and something else I couldn't see without pulling everything out.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked.

"Eat it," he deadpanned. "It's delicious."

I narrowed my eyes, and he lifted his hands in surrender, a laugh threatening. "Okay, okay. Get dressed so we can get out of here."

I squinted at him. Was he serious? He nodded, smile softer now, and some silly part of me straightened with hope. I slid off the bed and made it as far as the bathroom, then stopped dead at the mirror.

The cast swallowed my right arm from elbow to palm. Getting a shirt over this was an obstacle course. I'd managed toothpaste, barely. Buttons and sleeves were a different war.

I opened the door again, scowling. Blaise frowned when he saw I was still in the hospital gown.

"Why aren't you dressed?"

I lifted my cast. He blinked, then—of course—smirked like he'd thought of something unhelpful.

"What," I said slowly, "is that look?"

"Want me to help you change?" He waggled his eyebrows, and my face went so hot I could have boiled tea on it.

"Pervert!" I threw the bag at his chest. He caught it, laughing, and somehow that made it worse.

"You are not funny," I muttered, snatching a pillow and swatting his shoulder. With one working hand and zero force it was more like petting an unruly cat.

"Hey—okay—ow—" He danced away from my slow-motion bludgeoning, still laughing.

He caught the pillow mid-swing and leaned in, grin fading. "Hey. I was kidding. I wouldn't push you like that." His voice dropped, real for the first time. "I'll get a nurse."

He left before I could answer. When the door clicked shut, the silence swelled, and I exhaled the embarrassment out of my lungs. I wasn't actually mad; I'd faked it to cover up the ridiculous way my stomach kept flipping when he smiled. Pathetic. Who even was I like this?

A knock. The door opened and Blaise slipped in with a nurse at his shoulder. He gave me an apologetic smile and tipped his head toward the bathroom.

"Quick change," he said. "We've got somewhere to be."