01 Lovi – It Will Pass
[This version adapted from French is still being proofread. Feel free to drop a comment if you spot a sentence that could be phrased better.]
It’s been a while since I’ve been single. But falling in love? Yeah… I guess it happens for other people. Me? I keep my distance, it’s safer that way. Love usually seems to end up… hurting. Besides, I’m probably just a little too weird for something like that to happen to me. It’s true, I overthink everything.
For example, I’m always wondering how people perceive things. We walk down the street, eyes on our phones. We follow traffic signs, lights, and crosswalks. At the same time, we swipe through buttons, text fields, and notifications. Everything feels easy, logical, safe.
But behind experiences this seamless are designers like me, following an uncompromising logic. It’s exactly like the ads plastered on walls. The words. The fonts. The bright colors. Every detail is designed to trigger a reaction.
Suddenly, my heart lurches. I swerve to dodge someone, but my foot slips onto the curb. My ankle twists. I lose balance and I hit the street. A car honks at me. Another one rushes past five centimeters from my face.
I get up on adrenaline, grab a traffic pole and stop myself from screaming. My heart is pounding like crazy. I wince and hold my breath in short bursts, in rhythm with the pain pulsing through my joint.
I stay glued to the cold pole for a good ten minutes before I can finally make myself move. I set off again, tenser than ever. One leg stiff, the other overly cautious. Thankfully, the Emôta building comes into view at the end of the street.
Somehow, I make it to work and manage to squeeze into the elevator, packed with employees. Of course, everyone seems to have agreed to get off at every single floor before mine. It’s endless, and the pain keeps getting worse. I need to sit. Now.
I shuffle painfully toward reception and collapse into the first chair I see. I’m just rolling up my pant leg to massage my ankle when my boss, Claude Prézil—a fiery redhead in her fifties—spots me. She immediately looks alarmed.
—Are you okay, honey?
—It’s nothing. The Doripôle clients aren’t here yet?
—But you look like you’re in agony! Have you seen your face?! You need to see a doctor. There’s no way you can sit through your meeting like this.
—No, no… I’ll be fine.
—I don’t think so. Suly! Sulyyy!
My colleague, SULYVANE, strolls over, a file in hand. Tan skin, clinical gaze. Always immaculate in his dress pants and fitted vest over a spotless white shirt. He gives me a quick, perfectly stoic look, then he lets Claude know.
—There’s a physical therapy office downstairs.
—I’ll call them! I’ll tell them it’s urgent. Suly, can you grab a rolling chair so we can get him there?
I immediately protest.
—No, really… I can manage.
Curled up in pain, I don’t even dare touch my ankle anymore. Sulyvane steps closer, locking his eyes on mine. His stare is steady, uncomfortably sharp. Cold.
—You don’t negotiate with pain.
Then he disappears from sight. It was strange, but I don’t care. Right now, the only thing that matters is the searing heat swelling in my ankle.
Claude steps away then comes back moments later with a damp cloth.. She kneels in front of me, phone tucked against her ear.
—This is Ms. Prézil, from Elodi. My employee just had a very bad fall. He’s really not doing well. We’re in the Emôta building. Yes, I’ll hold.
She carefully folds the dish towel and lays it over my ankle. The cold hits me all at once, but the relief comes just as quickly. She quickly wraps up her phone call, then slips her phone into her pocket.
—All right. They’re waiting for us.
Sulyvane comes back a moment later with the red hand truck we use to move boxes. He sets it down next to me and cracks a joke. Or, I think he does.
—I grabbed the tie-down straps to secure the package.
—Perfect. I’ll take her down. You stay and welcome your clients?
Sulyvane nods soberly, grabs my laptop bag, then helps me settle onto the “devil”. And off we go. My tiny boss, with her surprisingly strong arms, personally delivers me to the lobby.
—You know, Claude, I’m not a big fan of doctors…
—Me neither, honey. But sometimes it’s nice having someone tell us we’re not dying just yet!
I smile at her, on the verge of tears, as the clinic doors slide open. Claude announces our arrival.
—Express delivery from the tenth floor!
The two patients in the waiting room look up, amused by our rather unconventional entrance. I give them a quick smile, then greet the receptionist with a slightly stiff nod. Claude helps me settle into the waiting room before getting ready to head back to the office.
—Call me when you’re done.
I nod and fold my arms across my chest. I wait five minutes. I turn the cloth over, but it’s already warm. I take it off. My skin is red and burning.
Another five minutes crawl by. My eyes blur, I want to cry. Because it hurts. Because I’m mad at myself for falling. Because I just hate medical facilities, hospitals, all of it. But with people around me, I try to hold it together.
I’m focused on the receptionist’s wrinkled face—she can’t be too far from retirement—when suddenly, the doctor steps out of the office to see a patient out. A tall dark-haired man in glasses, wearing the dreaded white coat. When he turns around, I feel his gaze land on me. I immediately look away.
—Mr. Mercier? Your turn, come on in…
The man beams at him, squeaks out a too-bright hello, then practically throws himself into his office. The second patient is called into the gym-like room beside reception. The door shuts.
I’m alone. The receptionist is on the phone, so I let myself break down. I curl up and let two big tears spill, blinding me instantly. I feel pathetic. And I know I’ll feel even worse walking out of here. All I really need… is a hug.
Suddenly, the doctor steps out of his office to speak with the receptionist. I’m still crying, so I keep my head down. I hear him head back into his office while I wipe away my tears.
A minute later, the receptionist comes over with a towel wrapped around a cold pack.
—Apply this on your ankle. The doctor says he’ll see you in about fifteen minutes.
The cold brings relief almost immediately. I relax a little and tilt my head back to stare at the ceiling. My body starts to calm down, but my mind doesn’t.
I want to leave. I hate medical places. I hate the plastic chairs, the sad little potted plants, the smell of disinfectant. But what I hate even more is the thought of someone I don’t know putting their hands on me.
…
I shouldn’t even be here. I’m hurting, but… it will pass.
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