Alya
White. Too white. The kind of white that buzzes; fluorescent, sterile, hollow. It wasn't just the color, it was the sound of it. A constant low hum behind my eyes. My lashes fluttered against the glare and for a second, I thought maybe I'd been caught in a spotlight again. Maybe this was an interrogation. Purgatory. Hell.
But no. The sheets were thin and stiff. The air smelled like antiseptic and plastic tubes. A dull beep pulsed in rhythm beside me. Hospital.
Shit.
I turned my head slightly, and slow, like my bones remembered the last time I moved too fast. The ceiling spun, then steadied.
And across the room, slumped in a shitty plastic chair like it had betrayed him halfway through the night was James. Head leaned back against the wall, jaw tight even in sleep. Arms crossed, muscles taut against a black shirt he is wearing like a second skin. His legs were sprawled out in front of him, even unconscious, he took up space in a way that made the world adjust to him.
