Heka slowly woke up, his eyelids heavy and his body aching. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air, mingling with the faint hum of medical machines.
He found himself lying in a hospital bed. The white sheets were crisp but cold against his skin.
This wasn't his first time here. He had been hospitalized several times before. But this time, something felt different.
He glanced around the unfamiliar room, trying to place where he was. But the name of the hospital eluded him. The walls were plain, the curtains drawn halfway, casting long shadows across the floor.
As his mind cleared, fragments of memories began to surface. He recalled the moments that had led him here. The pain and confusion had overwhelmed him.
Then, a wave of gratitude washed over him. It was because of Marchio. Marchio's intervention, his guidance, had led Heka to come to understand the truth behind his state.
The revelations were profound, and Heka knew he would never forget him. The only way he could repay Marchio's kindness was to follow the path Marchio had laid out for him. No matter how difficult it might be.
The room was quiet except for the faint beeping of a monitor nearby. Heka noticed the bed next to his was empty. However, another bed stood at the far end.
Beside the small desk, a water pitcher sat, still half full. He wondered where the occupant of that bed had gone. The absence felt odd, like a missing piece in an otherwise complete puzzle.
Feeling restless, Heka pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet touched the cold floor, and he stood unsteadily.
He walked over to the window and peered outside. The vibe was cloaked in darkness. The sky was heavy with thick black clouds that threatened rain. The air outside seemed heavy and foreboding, mirroring the turmoil inside him.
Suddenly, the soft sound of the doorknob caught his attention. He turned sharply toward the door, his heart skipping a beat.
"Ansel...". He whispered, surprised.
Ansel stepped into the room carrying an infusion drip. His face was bright with a warm smile.
Heka had hoped to avoid Ansel, especially after the weird, almost surreal experience of Marchio's reverse time illusion. But seeing Ansel now, he realized fate had other plans. Their meeting was inevitable.
He said cheerfully, extending his hand. It was clear Ansel didn't recognize Heka, or perhaps he was pretending not to. "Hello, my name is Ansel."
"Heka." He replied shortly, shaking Ansel's hand with a reserved grip.
Ansel's smile widened. "How about your belly? Yesterday, your belly was severe. I saw it when the nurse changed the bandage. What really happened? Don't you mind sharing with me?"
His questions came rapidly, almost spilling out in a rush.
It gawned Heka's mind. He obviously remembered. That woman stabbed him in his hand, not his belly.
When he rubbed his hand, he felt nothing. His hand was fine. There were no scars or bleeding. However, he was able to feel bleeding on his belly beneath the bandage.
Heka raised an eyebrow. A hint of sarcasm crept into his voice. "Which question should I answer first?"
Ansel laughed, seemingly unfazed by the sarcasm. He seemed genuinely happy to meet.
Heka, but the feeling was not mutual. Despite sharing the same room, Heka deliberately ignored Ansel's attempts at conversation.
Ansel tried again and again, but Heka remained silent, pretending Ansel didn't exist.
****
Night fell, and the hospital room grew colder and quieter. Yet, sleep eluded Heka. His mind raced with thoughts, memories, and the weight of his newfound understanding.
Ansel noticed his restlessness and finally spoke. He offered kindly. "Are you having trouble sleeping? Let me call the doctor for you."
"No thanks. Sorry for bothering you." Heka replied, rising from his bed. He walked toward the door, the weight of his thoughts heavier than ever.
"Where are you going?" Ansel's voice broke the quiet of the hospital room. It was tinged with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
"Just taking a walk. I'll be back when you've slept. I think it's better, because if I'm still here, you might never be able to sleep, too." The thought lingered in his mind, a silent hope that distance might bring peace.
Ansel shrugged lightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. His tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent of wanting to connect. "Nope. Apparently, it doesn't matter, I can use headphones so I can sleep easily."
Heka didn't respond. He simply wanted to stay away from Ansel, to create a space where he could breathe without the weight of forced conversation. Without looking back, he left the room, his footsteps echoing softly in the sterile corridor.
***
Days passed, and the atmosphere shifted. The day when Ansel was discharged from the hospital brought a subtle relief to Heka.
The tension of sharing the room, the awkward silences, and the unspoken grievances seemed to lift.
Ansel didn't forget to say goodbye before leaving.
"Today I'm going home. Don't worry, because I'm going to visit you. So, you don't feel alone." Ansel said with a hopeful smile.
Heka shook his head. His voice was firm but not unkind. "Don't do it. You must take a full rest at home."
Ansel's smile didn't falter. "Don't worry. I feel well after all."
Heka was eager to reunite with his parents, to step back into the warmth of family life. Yet, for him, the boundary between the human realm and the world of illusion blurred. The difference felt negligible, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.
****
Apparently, Heka didn't expect Ansel to keep his promise. But to his surprise, the very next day, Ansel appeared at his bedside. Despite just being discharged, he had brought flowers and snacks, a small gesture of kindness and friendship.
It seemed Heka had to ask permission to leave the hospital. This was the only way he could maintain some distance, to protect himself from the complicated feelings Ansel stirred within him.
Ansel had done a lot for Heka, but there was one thing Heka could not forgive: the way Ansel had hit him without giving him a chance to explain, not even a few words. That moment lingered with him like a shadow. As a wound that refused to heal.