I woke up feeling like I'd been mugged in my sleep.
Every part of me hurt. Joints stiff, head spinning, stomach cramping, and somehow—red marks everywhere. On my legs, my arms, even on both sides of my neck.
What happened? How did I end up like this?
Even the mattress felt like it was working against me. I tried to sit up—hands pressing into the bed, arms shaking under the weight of a body that suddenly felt twice as heavy.
All I could piece together were fragments: plastering brochures across half the city. Then hauling a drunk Alan back to his apartment, holding him up so he wouldn't hit the floor.
After that… nothing.
Dark. Quiet.
I reached for my phone in my bag—fingers trembling, the screen too bright, sharp against my eyes. I typed out a message to my professor, mistyping every other word, deleting, starting over, each breath shorter than the last.
'Sorry, I'm not feeling well. I won't be able to make it to class today.'
Sent.
I dropped back down. I couldn't remember ever crashing this hard. Even through storms and the worst colds, I always dragged myself to class. Always.
I was about to close my eyes for a second when a notification buzzed—hard enough to make my heart jump.
Marina: Alina, are you okay? Those creeps didn't do anything to you, right? I've been so worried. Please update me ASAP.
I turned the phone face down.
I wasn't in the headspace to get into it yet. I'd fill Marina in later.
Before I could even rest, knocking started up—hard, insistent, drilling straight into my skull.
"Alina. Open the door."
Alan's voice, low, from the other side.
The last thing I wanted right now was to see him. Especially like this.
Just ignore it.
A few seconds later, the knocking stopped.
Thank God. He finally gave up—until I heard faint footsteps coming from the balcony.
I tried to get up and check—in case it was a break-in.
Just standing was a whole ordeal. Legs dragging, one hand on the wall to keep from going down.
Then a figure dropped in through the balcony and scared me half to death.
"Alan!"
I lurched backward—body off-balance, legs nearly giving out.
Alan caught me fast—hands at my waist, steadying me before I could fall—then carefully walked me back to the bed. His movements were stiff, like he wasn't sure where to put his hands, fingers tense at my sides. "What's wrong with you?"
He sounded panicked—eyes wide, breathing fast. His hand went straight to my forehead—palm cold, touch slightly rough, like this wasn't something he did much.
"Hold on, I'll get you something."
He bolted to the kitchen. Cabinet doors opening and slamming. Fast. Frantic. Something clinked against a plate—small but sharp—followed by a muffled curse.
When he came back, he had a damp cloth in his hand. Folded crookedly, still dripping a little. He pressed it to my forehead—gentle, but awkward. His fingers held it down at the wrong angle, readjusting twice.
"Anything else that hurts?"
His voice was quieter now, almost a murmur. His eyes moved around the room like they couldn't settle anywhere—like he didn't know where to look.
"I'm a total wreck."
My voice came out rough. Throat dry, tongue heavy.
"Have you taken anything?"
I shook my head—the movement was small; my head was too heavy for more.
"I don't even know what's wrong. My bones ache. My back is killing me. My muscles are sore and my head won't stop spinning."
"Pain reliever." He got up fast—nearly clipped the side table. "Give me a second, I'll check the first aid kit."
He disappeared—sounds of a drawer being yanked open, pill packets shuffling around, the unmistakable noise of someone searching in a hurry without knowing exactly what they're looking for. He came back holding a Advil Liqui-Gels—held out like he'd just won something, a small, relieved smile on his face.
"Is that the right medicine?" I squinted at the packaging, skeptical.
"You're supposed to take this with food." He read the strip again—quickly, double-checking. "Let me get you something from the kitchen."
Back to the kitchen—sounds of shelves opening, a plate being moved, a knife on a cutting board—no real pattern to any of it, like he was improvising as he went. Two minutes later he was back with toast and sliced fruit on a small plate. The toast was a little squashed. The fruit was cut unevenly.
I tried to sit up—pushing myself, leaning back against the headboard.
Alan helped—lifting me into position, but carefully, like he was afraid of hurting me. He pulled a pillow over, tucked it behind my back—it wasn't quite right, so he pulled it out, adjusted it, tried again, until it finally worked.
Then he held out a piece of apple on a fork—gripping it stiffly, like he was handling a lab tool instead of a utensil.
I chewed with effort. My jaw was tight, every bite took concentration. Swallowing felt like something was stuck in my throat.
He offered the next piece—a bite of toast, soft, should've been easy.
I tried to swallow.
My body refused. My stomach turned suddenly, nausea climbing fast.
"This isn't working." Alan put the plate down immediately. "We need to get you to a clinic."
"I can't walk."
Barely any sound came out—short breath, chest tight.
"Then the doctor comes here."
He stepped out of the room—phone out, short conversation, voice low but direct. His free hand moved while he talked—gesturing even though the other person couldn't see him, a nervous habit he probably didn't notice.
I was too exhausted to keep my eyes open. My head sank into the pillow.
Alan came back and sat beside me. He pulled the blanket up—tucking the fabric to my chin, smoothing the sides—but there were creases he couldn't get right. He pulled it back, straightened it again, like the result wasn't good enough for him.
His fingers went still at the edge of the blanket.
Like he'd run out of things to fix.
An hour later, voices pulled me out of sleep—low, murmured, from across the room.
An older man's voice. Measured, unhurried. Alan answered in short responses.
When I opened my eyes, I saw him clearly: mostly silver hair, thick glasses. A worn brown leather bag sitting on the floor beside the bed.
He moved closer. A slight smile.
"Hello, Alina. I'm Dr. Richard. Mind if I take a look?"
All I could do was nod weakly. My throat felt like sandpaper.
Out came the stethoscope. The metal was freezing against my chest, even through my shirt.
"Take a deep breath… good. Now let it out slowly."
I followed along, pushing through the vague, sourceless discomfort that had settled everywhere.
He checked my pulse—quiet for a moment, counting internally.
"Open wide."
A small penlight shot straight in—my eyes watered immediately. A tongue depressor held me still for a second.
"Does this hurt?" He pressed specific points along the sole of my foot. Waiting for a reaction.
I nodded again.
"Go ahead and turn your head side to side for me."
I did. Pain flared immediately. I winced.
He examined my neck next—touch light—then gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"What happened last night?" he asked. "Walk me through it."
His gaze was sharp but not unkind. Patient.
"I was putting up flyers all over the city… then I helped Alan get home from a bar. He was drunk."
"That's all?" His eyebrow lifted slightly—a gentle skepticism, not accusatory. "After you got Alan home, until you made it back here… do you remember?"
"No."
"That's okay. Don't worry. Your body is running on fumes—your immune system took a hit at exactly the wrong moment. It's a perfect storm: physical exhaustion, stress, dehydration. I'll write you a prescription for an immune booster, anti-inflammatory, iron, folate, and vitamins. Two or three days, you should be back on your feet. If not, call me again."
"But I—" I tried to push back, my voice cut off by a small cough.
"I'm the Bernard family's personal physician. Don't worry about it."
His tone was easy. His eyes weren't.
Dr. Richard glanced over at Alan—sharp, pointed—his lips pressing together like he was holding back a lecture.
Alan immediately dropped his gaze, hands folded in his lap, suddenly very still.
I looked back and forth between them. Right. This was clearly not just a doctor being annoyed at a difficult patient.
There was a whole conversation happening in the silence. They both understood it. I was the only one who'd missed the memo.
"Thank you," the doctor said, turning back to me, "for bringing Alan home that night."
"Thank you, Doctor," I managed, voice nearly gone.
"Warm shower, rest, plenty of water. I'll write a doctor's note so you're covered for class. Get well soon." He folded the prescription slip and held it out to Alan with a look that landed somewhere between firm and tired. "Make sure you take care of her."
Alan nodded.
Dr. Richard said his goodbyes—picked up his bag, Alan walked him to the door.
I finally let out a real breath.
At least it wasn't something chronic.
For a second there, I genuinely thought I was dying.
By evening, I was well enough to sit up on the couch. My body felt lighter. The fog in my head had lifted. The red marks on my skin had faded completely. Whatever Dr. Richard prescribed worked quickly. Almost suspiciously fast.
Earlier in the afternoon, Alan had run a warm bath, picked up food, and taken care of everything with a level of attention that bordered on excessive.
Now he was in the kitchen. The hiss of the stove, the soft rhythm of a spoon against a pot, the warm smell of something herbal spreading through the apartment.
He came back with a ceramic mug. Thin wisps of steam curled against my face. Ginger and honey, the right balance.
Outside, a light drizzle had started. Rain tapping softly at the window, the lights turned low, a warm blanket in my lap—all of it created a stillness that felt almost too perfect to be real.
"You didn't have to do all of this," I said, watching him settle beside me.
He didn't answer right away. His eyes flicked toward me briefly, then drifted to the window—like something outside suddenly needed his attention.
"This is my fault," he said finally, voice low but steady. "I'm sorry I dragged you into my mess"
I frowned.
"Dragging me into what, exactly?"
"All of it. You got sick. You missed class—I saw your schedule on the desk. I already emailed your professors. I also saw you had a freelance deadline coming up. Because of this, your whole week got thrown off." His voice stumbled slightly as he spoke, one hand running through his hair like he wasn't fully sure what he was saying.
"Well. Good that you realize it."
"Yeah. I'm sorry."
"I can't believe you—getting into a fight with three guys while you were drunk."
"It was just instinct. I wasn't thinking. But I swear, I've never blacked out like that before. That wasn't normal."
"Don't make excuses. If you're blacked out, you're not going to know what's normal," I shot back. "But seriously—you've been hovering over me this whole time. When did you last eat?"
"That doesn't matter. You're the priority here."
Silence.
He looked down, fingers tapping against his knee with no rhythm. His mouth opened halfway, like he was about to say something, then closed again. When he finally looked up, his gaze only landed on my chin for a second before dropping back to the floor.
"I really am feeling better, I promise," I said, trying to give a small smile. "You can go home. I'll be fine."
Alan shook his head.
This time, those blue eyes landed on me—but only for a second before shifting to the hand still gripping the hem of his shirt. "I won't feel calm until I know you're really safe. Is there anything you want?"
I was quiet for a second, staring at his face without meaning to.
Strange.
Why was his face completely clear?
No scratches. No bruises. Nothing.
But that night, when I had laid him down on the bed, I clearly remembered bruising and a split lip—injuries I had deliberately not treated as punishment. At the very least, some trace of them should've still been there.
But now?
His skin looked flawless, like he'd never been hit at all.
And once I started remembering, another strange fragment of memory slipped in.
Not the injuries.
His eyes.
"Nothing," I said, pushing my own thoughts away. "It's just that I keep thinking... I'm sure I saw your eyes glowing that night."
Alan smiled in a way that mixed disbelief and teasing. "What? Are you sure? Eyes don't glow."
"I'm sure. Like glow-in-the-dark and green."
Loud laugh. "You were just exhausted. So exhausted it started messing with your subconscious." Alan gently brushed my hair.
"Maybe?" I scratched the back of my neck. "Weird dream, vivid dream, I guess." I smiled stupidly.
"Anything else? Still sore anywhere?"
I hesitated, then nodded.
"A little. My back and shoulders."
He didn't answer with words.
He just pulled out his phone, found a number, and spoke in a few short, businesslike sentences.
Half an hour later, two women from a mobile spa service arrived—carrying large bags, essential oils, and neatly folded white towels.
I was moved to the bedroom.
Lying face-down on the mattress, changed into a loose T-shirt.
Every press hit exactly the right spots—back, shoulders, lower spine. The scent of lavender and peppermint wrapped around the room, soft and grounding, until my eyes closed on their own, my breathing slowed, and my muscles finally, finally let go.
So this is what it felt like.
The spa trip Marina and I threatened to charge to Sean—I finally got it.
Morning came in easy—like my body had remembered what it felt like to be okay.
I walked along the sidewalk, taking my time, watching the way early sunlight filtered through leaves that were starting to turn. I'd slept through the night. No dreams. No pain. Just rest.
I found a spot on a bench near the corner of the complex: peeling paint on the wood, an empty swing, a sandbox that hadn't seen a kid in years. Quiet. Uncomplicated. The right place to clear my head.
I sat down. Closed my eyes. Breathed in.
Then I spotted him.
A man coming from the direction of the main road—arms covered in tattoos, shaved head, posture tight. He wasn't looking at me. But his pace slowed as he passed the park. His eyes swept the area like he was checking for something.
My heart picked up.
'What is that about?'
I looked down fast, pretending to mess with the strap of my sandal. But my mind had already gone there—back to that night. The bar. The three men piling onto Alan. The smell of sake and broken glass.
I shook my head, pushing the images away.
It's nothing. A coincidence. Not everything is a trigger.
But my body wasn't buying it. Muscles locked up. Pulse spiked.
And the strange thing was—underneath all that anxiety—what surfaced wasn't fear.
It was Alan's face.
The way he'd looked at me when he put the cold compress on my forehead.
His voice, low, saying "This is my fault."
The way his hands moved carefully, like he was afraid of making things worse.
I stood up. Enough. Time to head back.
I came here to clear my head, not think about him.
A few meters from the park exit, I stopped.
Standing under a maple tree was the exact person I'd just been thinking about.
Alan.
His shirt was dark with sweat. Hair messy. Face marked up—split lip, a cut above his eyebrow—but the moment I stepped out from behind the bushes, his eyes locked onto me.
"What happened to you?" It came out before I could stop it.
"Nothing," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Just training."
"Training? Where? With who?"
"Someone passing by."
"Did they start it?"
"Not exactly."
"Then why did you? You could've just walked away and be nice guy."
"I'll work on that."
"How did you even end up here?" I asked, softer this time.
He paused. Then, "I was jogging."
"Alan. You know this complex is nowhere near campus, right? Or your apartment?"
He shrugged. "Maybe my feet had their own opinion."
I stared at him. Unconvinced. But also… not able to argue with it.
"That's the weakest excuse I've ever heard."
"Why? Are you worried about me?" he asked suddenly.
I looked away. "Not worried. Just… confused. How do you always manage to show up right when I'm thinking about you?"
He didn't joke. Didn't deflect. Just looked at me—steady, unhurried, like he already knew the answer.
"Maybe because I was thinking about you too."
The air between us shifted. Heavier. Warmer.
I swallowed. "What is wrong with you?"
"I just needed to check on you in person," he said, cutting in quickly. "I wanted to say hi and make sure you were okay. Are you? Better?"
"Yes. Back to normal. Ninety-nine percent."
"What's the remaining one percent?"
"My head."
"Want me to find you a therapist?"
"No, Alan," I said, genuinely exasperated. "I'm not losing my mind. You're so annoying."
"Then what did you mean?"
"I wanted to take a walk. Clear my head. Look at something nice for once. That was the whole plan—come to the park, breathe, reset. And then you show up and ruin the scenery."
"Alright, let's go somewhere today then. Beach or mountains. Pick one."
"No. I have a ten o'clock class, and I'm not skipping again. I'm going home."
"I can't do anything right," Alan muttered—just loud enough for me to catch it. "Hey, before you go… can I get your number?"
"What for?"
"So we can keep in touch."
I thought about it. After everything he'd done, there wasn't really a good reason to say no.
I rattled off the digits. He typed them in, glanced at the screen, then looked back up.
"Okay. I'll keep running."
"Alright. Be careful. And don't pick any more fights."
"Got it."
At the fork in the path, we went separate ways. Alan gave a small wave. I didn't wave back. He smiled—quiet, unhurried—eyes still on me, like he was measuring something he couldn't quite name.
I turned and walked home with a smile I hadn't managed to shake.
Nine o'clock that night. I was sitting at my desk.
The book in front of me was open, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. The page hadn't moved in a while. My eyes stayed on words I wasn't reading.
The morning kept replaying itself.
I smiled without meaning to. A small lift at the corner of my mouth. Something lighter in my chest, just for a second.
I opened my phone. Screen lit up. Messages from Marina had been stacking up. I filled her in on what happened—the whole thing with Alan.
Marina: Why didn't you just lock him down? Not bad.
Me: Are you serious?? I'm not like that. I'm not going to fold that easily.
Marina: He's the one who came after you. I'm starting to think it was all on purpose.
Me: You watch way too much drama.
Marina: Very literary-coded, honestly. But for real though. Chances like this don't come around twice.
Me: I still think it was a coincidence.
Marina: Noted. But if you end up talking to him again tomorrow, that means he's been paying attention to you.
Me: Stop, I don't want to get my hopes up over nothing. He has options. Plenty of them.
Marina: And his options apparently led him straight to you. You should be happy about that. Real talk—if Alan confessed to you right now, would you actually turn him down?
Me: Yes.
Marina: For real? Someone you've lowkey had a thing for this whole time.
Me: I do not.
Marina: Don't dodge it. The way you talk about him, the look on your face when he comes up—it shows. I can see it. Be honest with yourself.
I put the phone down immediately. Screen went dark. My hands were a little unsteady.
Was this what people meant by feelings?
Me? Liking Alan?
No. Not in any universe. I would never admit that.
Me: I can't be in a relationship anyway.
Marina: I know. Top of the class. Career-focused.
I smiled. Faintly. With an edge to it.
As someone who'd lost both parents, I didn't have the luxury of not having it together. Discipline and hard work weren't values I chose—they were survival. There was no other way.
Marina: Just stay open to it. If Alan ends up being a problem, cut him loose. Plenty of girls ready to pick up the slack.
A short laugh slipped out—barely a sound, flat.
Marina made it sound so simple.
I didn't reply.
Since everything that had happened, Alan had been… different. Considerate. Careful. Nothing like the rumors that had followed him around campus for years.
But maybe that was just the version of him I got to see.
Behind closed doors? Who could say.
I couldn't picture myself being close to Alan and also having to deal with his habits—late-night stumbles, holding him up while he reeked of sake, carrying his dead weight through alleyways.
Once was more than enough.
And that was before factoring in the mess of his apartment and the fighting.
One wrong mood and it could go somewhere much darker.
I couldn't live like that.
I closed my laptop. Turned off the desk lamp. Let my head fall back onto the pillow.
Everything went quiet.
Too quiet—the kind where you realize the calm isn't actually peace.
I'd made up my mind to keep my distance. So why did it feel like something was waiting on the other side of that decision?
Like someone was already planning their next move.
And it wasn't me.