Chapter 15 Patrick
I sit on the couch with my jaw clenched so tightly it aches, the phone pressed to my ear as I listen to it ring. Each chime coils the tension inside me tighter, like a spring pulled past its limit. My pulse beats in my throat. My palm is damp against the smooth glass.
Part of me hopes she picks up. The other part — the louder, more desperate part — hopes she doesn’t.
It goes to voicemail.
Relief crashes through me so fast it’s almost dizzying. My shoulders sag. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and waited for the tone, staring at the blank wall across the room as if it might steady me.
When it sounds, I force my voice into something calm. Controlled. “Hey, doc. I got your message. I wanted to touch base with you about what’s been going on. So… get back to me when you get a chance. Thanks.”
Short. Vague. Safe.
I end the call before I can overthink it, before I can turn it into something heavier.
The phone remains in my hand for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the screen like it might burn me if I hold it too long. I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t confess. I didn’t pour the truth into her voicemail like some frantic admission.
Because this isn’t something you leave on a recording. This isn’t something you throw into the void and hope it lands gently. This is something you say when someone is actually listening.
I set the phone down on the coffee table and lean back into the cushions, staring at the ceiling. My entire body feels braced, like I’ve been waiting for impact for days, and it still hasn’t come.
The anxiety of what she might say presses behind my ribs — steady, heavy, impossible to ignore. I know she’s the only one who might have answers. Real answers.
But I also know those answers won’t be simple. They won’t be comforting. They won’t be something I can un-hear once they’re spoken.
Whatever she tells me, it will bring clarity.
And I don’t know if I’m ready for clarity.
Not when a small, stubborn part of me still insists this can be avoided. Managed. Suppressed.
I drag a hand over my face and let my head fall back. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall, but inside my skull, it’s anything but quiet. The tension hums under my skin — the same tension that’s been building since the moment I touched Lottie and felt that spark.
That impossible, electric spark.
I close my eyes.
I’ve taken the next step.
Now I just have to survive whatever comes after.
I jolt awake with my heart pounding, disoriented, the room dim around me. For a moment, I don’t know where I am. The movie I’d turned on earlier is long finished, the screen dark.
I didn’t even realize I’d fallen asleep.
One second, I was staring at my phone, waiting for it to ring.
The next — nothing.
The light filtering through the windows has shifted into early evening. The gray has deepened into muted blue. Hours must have passed.
I reach for my phone, fingers stiff from the awkward angle I slept in. The screen lights up.
5:07 p.m.
One notification. A text from my brother. Nothing from Dr. Marin.
I exhale slowly, unsure whether it’s relief or disappointment. Maybe both. Maybe I’m too wrung out to tell the difference.
I sit up and stretch, my spine protesting sharply. Sleeping half-curled on the couch is a terrible decision, but apparently exhaustion overruled me.
In the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge. The cold plastic bites pleasantly into my palm. I twist the cap off and drink nearly the entire thing in one long pull, only realizing how parched I was when the water hits my tongue.
When I’m done, I toss the bottle into the recycling bin and head upstairs.
I should eat. I know I should. But the idea of food sits heavily in my stomach. I’m not hungry. I’m not anything, really.
Just unsettled.
At the doorway to my bedroom, I stop.
Something feels off.
The room looks exactly as I left it — the bed neatly made, blankets folded with habitual precision, books stacked on the nightstand. The faint scent of laundry detergent lingers in the air.
Nothing is out of place. Nothing is missing.
And yet—something is.
I stand there, one hand curled around the doorframe, trying to name the sensation. It’s like walking into a room just after someone has left — that strange, residual emptiness. The sense of an absence that hasn’t fully dissipated.
It settles in my chest like a weight.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to shake it off. Maybe it’s the nap. Maybe it’s the stress. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve spent the entire day trying not to think about Lottie, and now that I’m still, she fills the silence effortlessly.
I step into the room slowly, almost cautiously.
Nothing changes. Nothing reveals itself. But the feeling doesn’t fade.
If anything, it sinks deeper. Like the air is charged with something unseen. Like the universe is holding its breath. Like I’m standing at the edge of something I didn’t realize I’d been approaching. And I have no idea what’s waiting below.
Sunday passes in a long, gray stretch of waiting. Waiting for Dr. Marin to call back. Waiting for clarity. Waiting for someone — anyone — to explain why my body and mind feel like they’ve been rewired without my consent.
Waiting for an explanation. Or a reason. Or an excuse.
I’m not sure which I want more.
But the phone never rings.
By Monday, the world looks deceptively bright. Sunlight spills through my window in wide, golden bands, warming the floorboards and cutting through the lingering haze of the past few days.
I blink at the clock.
Noon.
I don’t know why I’ve been so tired lately. It’s not physical exhaustion. It’s deeper than that — like my mind has been running nonstop, processing something too large to fit neatly into thought.
I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. The shower sputters to life, steam curling up the glass in thick, swirling patterns. I relieve myself, strip out of my pajamas, and step under the spray once it warms.
The water hits me like a reset button. Heat spreads across my shoulders, loosening muscles I didn’t realize were tight. My lungs expand more fully. My thoughts sharpen, clearing at the edges.
For a moment, I just stand there, letting the spray drum against my skin.
And then it happens.
The scent hits me so sharply I forget how to breathe.
Fresh pine. Cold winter air. That crisp, wild note that is unmistakably her.
It blooms through the steam as if summoned — vivid, immediate, threading into my lungs and settling under my skin. For a split second, I’m certain she’s here. That if I turn around, I’ll find her standing just beyond the curtain of steam, green eyes bright and steady.
But the bathroom is empty. Of course it is.
She’s nowhere near me. She’s probably walking across campus right now, thinking about classes or assignments or anything but me.
And yet the scent is so real it feels like she’s close enough to touch.
My hand braces against the shower wall, fingers slipping slightly on the wet tile. My breathing turns uneven, shallow.
This isn’t normal. This isn’t rational.
This isn’t something I can dismiss as stress or imagination.
It feels like something inside me is aligning itself to her — like a compass needle swinging toward true north, whether I want it to or not.
And the worst part?
A small, traitorous part of me doesn’t want it to stop.