The hours dragged on like chewing gum. Numbers, words, chalk marks—they were there, I saw them, but they bounced off me like raindrops from glass. I sat there, pen in hand, yet the lines on my paper blurred together as if they wanted to run away. Everything in my head revolved only around what happened yesterday. And what might still happen today.
My stomach was empty, but not hungry. Empty like a chamber that no longer lets anything in. I sensed the teacher saying my name, saw her lips moving, but her words hung in the air as if through cotton wool. Some glances turned toward me, brief, scrutinizing, curious. I pretended to write, and the attention moved on.
But something else gnawed at me—a weight that neither chalk nor numbers knew: the fear of Malaric, the warmth of Alaric's gaze, the thundering of the doctor's words still echoing in my head: Inpatient.
