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.]
I always wonder how much people really notice. We walk down the street, eyes on our phones. We blindly follow traffic signs, lights, crosswalks. At the same time, we swipe our way through buttons, input fields, notifications.
Everything’s the right color, the right place, the right time. Our paths flow smoothly, leading us to the destination we want to reach, the action we’re supposed to complete. Everything feels easy, logical, safe.
Behind the scenes, it takes relentless design work to make such journeys feel effortless. Choices of shapes, textures, orientation, legibility…
Just like those ads plastered on walls, all designed to grab my attention. Their words, their fonts, their bright colors: every detail carefully engineered to trigger an instant, unconscious response.
These are stimuli called “triggers.” Automatic cues that our brain catches and processes in the background. Their purpose: to stay invisible, so everything feels more… easy, logical, safe.
My heart lurches. I swerve to dodge someone, but my foot slips onto the curb.
My ankle twists. I lose balance. I hit the street. A car honks at me. Another one rushes past five centimeters from my face. My heart is pounding like crazy.
I get up on adrenaline, grab a traffic pole and stop myself from screaming.
I wince. I hold my breath in short bursts, in rhythm with the pain pulsing through my joint.
A bike courier brakes in front of me, catching my attention.
—I saw you fall, are you okay?
I nod right away, to reassure him.
—Nothing serious! I’ll be fine…
He gives me a worried look, then rides off. I stay clinging to the cold pole.
It must be ten minutes before I can move again.
I limp forward. One leg stiff, the other overly cautious. I walk, tense like never before. The Emôta building looms at the end of the street. My company’s inside. I’m in pain. But I keep going.
Somehow, I make it 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 is getting worse. I need to sit. Now.
I shuffle painfully toward reception and collapse into the first chair I see. I roll up my pants to massage my ankle just as my boss, Claude Prézil — a petite, fiery redhead in her fifties — spots me. She’s immediately alarmed.
—You’re not okay, are you?
—It’s nothing. The Doripôle clients aren’t here yet?
—No… but honey… you’re in agony! Have you seen your face?! You can’t go into that meeting like this. You need a doctor.
—No, no… I’ll be fine.
She’s already turning to the open space.
—Oh no, 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. Curled up in pain, I don’t even dare touch my ankle anymore.
—There’s a physical therapy office downstairs, he says flatly.
—I’ll call them! Claude exclaims. I’ll tell them it’s urgent. Suly, can you grab a rolling chair so we can get her there?
—No, really… I can manage… I say, a little too shakily.
Sulyvane steps closer, locking his eyes on mine. His stare is steady, uncomfortably sharp.
—You don’t negotiate with pain, he says coolly.
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 disappears, then comes back moments later, a damp cloth in her hand. She kneels in front of me, phone tucked against her ear.
—Yes, this is Ms. Prézil, from Elodi. My employee just had a — very, very bad fall, she’s really not doing well. We’re in the Emôta building. Yes, I’ll hold.
She folds the cloth neatly and lays it on my ankle. The cold stings at first but soothes me instantly. She stands up with a sigh and steps away to finish her call.
Sulyvane reappears, pushing the red trolley we use to haul boxes.
—In France, we call a dolly a “diable.” It literally means “devil,” he says.
—They’re ready for us, Claude announces, slipping her phone into her pocket.
—I brought the straps to secure the package, Sulyvane deadpans.
—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 hey, sometimes it’s nice having someone tell us we’re not dying just yet!
I manage a smile, almost crying, as the clinic doors open for us.
—Express delivery from the tenth floor! she jokes.
The two patients in the waiting room look up, amused by our entrance. I give them a quick smile, then hobble to a seat. I greet the receptionist, an older woman, with a stiff nod and fold my arms against myself.
—Call me when you’re done, Claude whispers before slipping out.
I wait five minutes. I turn the cloth over, but it’s already warm. I take it off. My skin is red and burning. Ugh…
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 focus for a while on the wrinkled face of the assistant, who must be close to retirement.
Suddenly the doctor steps out of his office, escorting a patient to the door. A tall dark-haired man in glasses, wearing the dreaded white coat. When he turns toward the hall, I feel his gaze sweep over me. Unable to bear his presence for more than a split second, I look down.
—Mrs. Mercier? Your turn, come on in…
The woman beams at him, squeaks out a too-bright hello, and practically throws herself into his office.
My ankle throbs. The second patient is called into the gym-like room beside reception. The door shuts.
The receptionist is on the phone. I finally let myself crack. 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 strides back out, heading to the front desk to whisper to the receptionist. I’m still crying, so I keep my head down. He disappears again into his office. I quickly wipe 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.
—Thanks…
The ice relieves me fast. My body eases up, though not my mind. All I want is to get the hell out.
I hate medical places. I hate plastic chairs, beige walls, droopy 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. A doctor.
My stomach knots. A shiver runs down my spine.
I’m not sick.
I’m in pain, but… it will pass.
📖 Next chapter: Omaè’s POV! 🔥
📜 ONE chapter released EVERY WEEK!
📚 Every Wednesday! Non-stop, for years to come! 😋
🌶️ Some Saturdays: spicy and erotic chapters! 🔞
