the tiles are icy and almost numbing to the skin of her cheek. what time is it? the air does not feel right ( stale and sterilized, but something about its cleanliness is off ), and the fluorescent lights blink a few meters above her. the walls are off-white. or, at least they would’ve been if the paint wasn’t peeling. more importantly, where am I? a rustle stirs beside her, and she doesn’t think she has ever snapped her head in one direction as quickly. a boy. white hair, blue hoodie, and… okay, definitely not designer jeans. also barefoot. she raises a hand to touch him, wake him up, ask for explanations ( although that last one is most likely pointless, because they were both asleep under the same circumstances ) and —— cold. not the kind of cold anyone gets sitting in an air-conditioned room for hours, no; it’s the kind of cold experienced by someone who has never felt it until that moment, like someone who has spent their whole life in the tropics put in the unforgiving cold of an Alaskan winter.
which brings astrid to wonder: is he dead? her eyes shift to his chest. it rises and falls. not dead. kind of. she purses her lips. he could be danger. he could be help. all she knows is she’s in god-knows-where, beside a stranger, and light above her is blinking faster. it’ll burn out, and if ( or when ) it does, she’s sure she doesn’t want to be the only one awake in the dark. astrid takes hold of his shoulder and shakes him.
