Unspoken
The world feels muted.
White walls. Soft beeping. The faint sting of antiseptic. I lie here, half-awake, half-disconnected. My body is in this bed, but my mind… somewhere else. Floating. Tired. Lost. Pieces of my memory feel like smoke slipping through my fingers.
I stare at the ceiling. It’s easier than looking at myself. My reflection is nothing I recognize, and that’s somehow worse than the ache in my chest.
The door bursts open.
“Arabella!”
Mom rushes to my bedside, her voice trembling. She cups my face like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she blinks.
“Oh my God, baby… what were you thinking? You scared me. You scared all of us.”
“I… I’m okay,” I whisper, trying to sound normal.
“You’re not,” she says, voice breaking. “Don’t lie to me. Please… don’t pretend with me. You scared me half to death!”
Two familiar figures slip in behind her—Mara and Isha, my best friends. They glance at me cautiously, almost afraid to touch me, as if I might shatter.
“Hey…” Mara whispers, forcing a small smile. “You really love giving us panic attacks, huh?”
Isha nudges her, eyes glistening. “Stop joking. She… she scared us.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
Mara crosses her arms. “You should be. I almost deleted your Netflix account out of anger.”
A weak laugh escapes me. Barely.
Mom sits on the edge of the bed, thumb brushing my cheek. “You could’ve told me. You always can.”
I look away. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”
“You never are,” she says immediately, fierce and steady. “Never.”
I want to believe her. I do. But the emptiness in my chest whispers otherwise.
The door opens again, this time quietly.
A man steps in.
Tall. White coat. Clipboard in hand. The moment he enters, something unexplainable pricks at my chest. A flutter I can’t name. My mind draws a blank, but my body… reacts.
I try to look away. My eyes betray me anyway.
He doesn’t glance at me at first, flipping through papers, scanning like it’s any other patient.
Mom straightens. “Doctor, thank you for coming. She… she needs to be checked.”
“I understand,” he says. Calm. Low. Faintly familiar.
He lifts his head.
Our eyes meet.
And something inside me jolts—a spark, unexplainable, magnetic. My chest pounds. My breath hitches. My mind goes blank. No memory of him. No name. Nothing. But the pull… is undeniable.
He freezes for a heartbeat, like he recognizes something too. Pain, longing, shock.
“Arabella,” he says softly, and my name falls from his lips like a key I don’t remember. “How are you feeling?”
“I… I’m okay,” I whisper, unsure why my voice sounds small.
He tilts his head, studying me. “Right.”
Mom watches anxiously, unaware of the storm between us. “She hasn’t been eating. She hasn’t been sleeping. Earlier—”
“Mom, please,” I whisper.
He steps closer, careful, deliberate. Close enough that I can feel a warmth I don’t understand, like gravity pulling me toward him.
“You seem… different,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Are you in pain?”
My chest constricts. My lips part, but no words come. My body reacts. My pulse spikes.
“I just… I don’t know why I feel this,” I whisper.
He studies me, soft, deliberate. “Arabella… I just want to make sure you’re okay. That’s all.”
The pull intensifies, and I can’t look away. My mind says run, stay calm, don’t let him see—but my chest betrays me.
“I…” My voice falters.
He exhales softly, almost a breath for himself. Then, slowly, he reaches for my wrist.
My heart thuds harder. Why is this familiar? Why does my chest flip like it recognizes him?
“Just relax,” he murmurs, brushing my wrist with his thumb as he feels my pulse.
I freeze. His touch is gentle, deliberate, and every nerve in my body hums. My heartbeat jumps at the contact.
“Your pulse is fast,” he says quietly. Not judging. Just observing.
“I… I’m fine,” I whisper, though I know it’s a lie.
He leans a little closer, just enough that I can feel the faintest heat radiating from him. “Your heartbeat… it’s not just from fear, is it?”
I swallow hard. My breath hitches again. “I… don’t know.”
A flicker of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “That’s okay. You don’t have to know everything right now. Just… feel. And breathe.”
I try. Tentatively. Hesitantly. He guides me with calm fingers on my pulse, slow, precise. But it’s not just his hands—it’s the attention, the way he watches me, that twists my chest, that makes me feel seen in a way I can’t explain.
“My heartbeat… it’s… it’s faster,” I whisper, almost embarrassed.
“I can see that,” he murmurs, voice low, gentle. “And that’s… okay.”
My chest tightens in a strange way. My body reacts to him, to the calm authority in his touch, to the soft intensity in his gaze. My mind can’t place him, but my body remembers something… someone.
He studies me for a moment longer, then softly lifts a pulse oximeter. “I want to check your oxygen and heart properly. It’ll just take a second.”
I nod, too aware of how close he is. My pulse races. My chest hammers. I can’t understand why.
“Relax,” he whispers. “I won’t hurt you.”
I do. I relax. Somehow, despite the thrum in my chest, I do. Because the pull is… compelling. Because my body responds. Because, even without memory, my soul recognizes the warmth and safety in him.
He gently attaches the sensor to my finger, then rests a hand near mine—again, deliberately, carefully. I can feel every detail: the warmth, the strength, the precision.
“See?” he murmurs softly. “Nothing to worry about. Just breathe. Let it settle.”
I do. Slowly. Tentatively. My chest begins to ease. But the spark—the inexplicable tension between us—remains.
I glance at him. I don’t know him. I can’t name him. And yet… my heart whispers a truth I cannot understand.
Something about him feels like home.
Something about him feels… inevitable.
