146. “Isabelle.”

146. “Isabelle.”
Isabelle Nash

The first thing I feel is the cold.
Not the kind brought by wind or winter, but an inner cold that seems to seep from my bones and slide across my skin. A constant chill, like my body has forgotten how to hold on to warmth. I try to move, and even the simple act of wanting to feels as heavy as dragging an anchor with the muscles of my mind.
Then comes the light.
It pierces my closed eyes, pressing against my eyelids from the inside out. Hot, intrusive, aggressive. Like the world has been waiting with floodlights on, eager to drag me out of wherever I’ve been hiding. Instinctively, my brow furrows. Slightly. Barely. But it’s enough to realize—I’m back in my body.
It’s strange.
My chest rises and falls, but the air doesn’t seem to enter fully. My hands… I don’t know if they’re open, closed, or touching anything. I feel pressure in one of them, and only then do I recognize it—it’s another hand. Warm. Steady. Holding. Its presence is like a name whispered in the dark—it doesn’t need to be spoken to be understood.
The voice comes next. Deep. Low. More a thought than a sound. But I’d recognize it in the middle of chaos.
“Isabelle.”
My name. In his mouth.
Felix.
The name forms slowly, like my mind is walking a straight line for the first time. And with it, everything returns. The container. The gun. Simon. The fear. The certainty I wouldn’t make it out alive. And then… then his shadow coming in, the sound of gunfire, his body placing itself between me and the end.
My eyes try to open. They can’t. It’s like trying to lift the world with my eyelids.
But I try because he’s here.
And that changes everything.
I force my eyes. A second time. A third. Time doesn’t exist here in seconds or minutes—it exists in attempts. In an effort. In will.
And then, with a silent snap, the darkness begins to give way.
First comes the light. Bright, diffuse, slicing through my eyelids like it’s trying to tear me open from the inside. A single beam, like the world outside, has been waiting for the slightest crack in my unconsciousness to break in. Then, the ceiling. White, matte. As plain as it is impersonal. And yet, it holds me like the ceiling of a church, because it’s the first concrete proof—I didn’t die.
My throat burns when I try to swallow. The air comes in unevenly, like it's relearning how. The weight on my chest is almost unbearable. It feels like I’m drowning in air. I try to turn my head, but I fail. Everything spins. But I’m not afraid. Not completely. Because he’s there.
The scent comes first. Woody. Warm. Alive. Then the outline beside me. A large shadow. Silent. And then the touch: the steady hand that hasn’t let go of mine for a single second. I recognize it by the texture of his skin, by the way his fingers hold—not a doctor’s touch. Not a nurse’s. His.
Felix.
I turn my eyes slowly, the image still blurry, almost liquid. Light spills across the contours of his face, and still I see. The tense jaw. His eyes locked on me as if trying to pull me back by sheer force of will. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His presence weighs more than any word.
I want to say his name. Say I’m here. I came back. That’s because of him. But my mouth won’t respond. Too dry. Too heavy. So the only thing I can do is hold his hand. Weakly. But I have it.
His eyes shift. A muscle in his face twitches. Like he can’t fully believe it.
But I’m here.
Even if it still feels like a dream.
I try to say his name.
The urge rises from my chest like a stifled sob, forms at the base of my tongue, tries to crawl up my dry throat… but it doesn’t come out. It’s as if my body hasn’t given everything back yet. As if every word is still buried beneath layers of fear, exhaustion, and sedation. Frustration builds—hot, a discomfort that spreads from within. I’m awake. I’m here. But I still can’t make myself heard.
My eyes search for his. The image is clearer now. The shape of his face is sharp. The exhaustion drawn around his eyes, the tension locked into the line of his jaw. Felix isn’t just looking at me. He’s guarding me like someone defending a war-ravaged border.
And then he leans in.
His eyes are
locked on mine, as if he still can’t quite believe this is happening. As if every blink of mine is a test, a risk, a threat that I might close my eyes again—and not come back.
“You can hear me?” he asks, voice low, hoarse, too heavy to sound soft. “Blink if you can.”
I blink.
Once.
A muscle in his face tightens. Just one. But it’s enough. He lowers his head for a second, like the weight has finally dropped from his shoulders straight to the floor. It’s not relief. It’s exhaustion. The kind of weariness no sleep can fix.
“You took your time,” he says, in a tone I can’t quite tell if scolding or confessing
. “Fuck, Isabelle. I thought I’d lost you.”
I try to squeeze his hand. The gesture is weak, but he feels it. His response is immediate—his steady hand closes tighter around mine like he’ll never let me fall. Ever again.
“I’m here. Not leaving for a single damn minute. You won’t hear me say ‘be right back’ ever again. I swear it, with everything I’ve got. And sure, that may not mean much—not to you—but to my enemies, it means everything.”
He says it with a half smile, looking at me like he never has before.
He says it with that half-smile, but it’s different. One that doesn’t hide behind irony or cynicism. One that carries pain. Fear. Truth. And there, in his eyes, I see everything I never needed to hear. The way he’s looking at me now is more intimate than any touch. Like he’s seeing someone he wasn’t sure would come back. Like every detail of my face has been redrawn in his memory, just to make sure it wouldn’t be lost.
I want to respond. Say, I heard him, so I understand that I’m here too—even if in pieces.
I try again.
My throat scrapes. A rough, dry, broken sound slips out. Felix leans in, alert, his eyes lighting up like the whole world has paused just for this.
My mouth moves slowly.
I push out a syllable. My tongue was heavy, my lips cracked.
“Fe…”
He comes closer, his face inches from mine. He breathes like someone who’s finally surfaced after being underwater for too long.
“Talk to me, Isabelle.”
I try again.
The sound doesn’t come out whole. But it comes.
“…lix.”
The word breaks in the middle. But it makes it. He closes his eyes for a moment. And when he opens them, there’s water in them. Not desperate tears. Silent ones, as he brushes my face with his thumb, so slowly it tingles in the softest, sweetest way.