Page 119 of Infamous
I last four days before I cave.
The clinic sits on the edge of the city - clean walls, white corridors, the faint hum of air conditioning masking the sound of heartbreak. I park outside and just sit there for a while, staring at the sterile glass doors. My reflection looks like a stranger. Too many nights without sleep. Too much fury with nowhere to go.
Inside, the receptionist smiles the way she’s been trained to do so. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for Nadia Reed,” I say.
Her fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Visiting hours are limited-”
“Now.”
Something in my voice makes her stop talking. She nods and calls a nurse. I wait, pacing, feeling the weight of every breath like a punishment. When they finally take me down the hall, the smell of antiseptic hits me hard - cold, clean, cruel.
Her room is larger than I imagined. A huge bay window with a seat. Pale curtains. A vase of fresh flowers that warms the room. And Nadia - lying there, propped up slightly against the pillows. Her hair’s been braided - neat, careful - something one of the nurses must’ve done for her. Her skin is pale, almost translucent under the harsh light. But it’s her eyes that ruin me.
They’re open, but vacant - like the light in them went out and no one bothered to relight it.
“Nadia,” I whisper, stepping closer. My voice sounds foreign, cracked and low.
Her eyes flick toward me - slow, uncertain. A tremor of recognition? Maybe. Maybe not. She doesn’t speak. Her lips barely part. Her gaze slips past me like she’s watching something behind my shoulder, something only she can see.
I sit beside her bed, the chair groaning under my weight. For a long time, I just stare. Her hand lies limp against the blanket, thin and small. I reach for it, careful, my thumb tracing the soft lines of her skin.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “I’m here.”
Nothing.
Just the slow rhythm of her breathing, which is proof of life and nothing more.
I swallow hard. “You’re starting to look better,” I lie. “They say you’re healing.”
My laugh cracks at the end. Healing. As if that word could undo what was done to her.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and let my head hang. The air feels too heavy to breathe. I want to drag her out of this place, take her somewhere the world can’t touch her - somewhere quiet, safe, alive. But she’s not ready.
And maybe I’m not either.
When I look up again, her eyes are still on me, faintly. There’s no emotion there, but there’s a flicker - the smallest shift, like a candle fighting to stay lit. It’s enough to wreck me.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask. My voice barely makes it past my throat.
Her gaze moves, slow as gravity. Then a whisper, dry and broken: “Luc...”
It’s barely there. But it’s her voice. She stops before she finishes and looks away.
I drag in a breath that feels like drowning.
Her eyes drift shut again. She’s gone somewhere I can’t follow.
I sit there until the nurse comes in to tell me visiting hours are over. I nod, though I don’t move. My fingers stay tangled in hers, cold and fragile, as if letting go would make her disappear entirely.
When I finally leave, the hallway feels longer than before. Every step echoes like a failure.
Outside, the sky has started to rain. It’s soft at first - almost gentle. The kind of rain that doesn’t cleanse, just reminds you what you’ve done. I stand under it, letting it soak through my shirt, through my skin, through everything that still remembers her touch.
She’s still in there. I know it. Somewhere behind that hollow stare, the woman I love is fighting to find her way back to me.
And I’ll wait. I’ll wait through every hour, every day, every storm if I have to. Because time isn’t mercy - it’s devotion measured in seconds.
