Without thinking, I reached for my phone and searched for Isaac’s number.
Then I froze.
What was I doing?
Habit, it seemed, was a cruel thing—more dangerous than any wound.
I gave a short, humorless laugh, lowered the phone, and slipped it back into my pocket.
No more calls. No more illusions.
I accepted the medications from the healer, thanked her quietly, and walked myself to the patient rest area, alone.
The morning felt unusually long as I finished the last of the bitter herbal concoction and received the infusion recommended by the healer. My head swam with dizziness, and even a few steps left me shaky, almost toppling over.
I picked up my phone to check for any messages from Isaac, a small part of me still hoping he had at least sent a word. But my heart sank when the screen remained empty—no updates, no questions about my condition, not even a single text showing he cared.
With a deep breath, I decided to call him despite the growing unease in my chest. I didn’t want any assumptions or miscommunications to pile up between us. When he answered and realized I was still in the healer’s care, there was a pause on his end before he spoke.