Flora’s heart skipped a beat. “You!”
Before she could finish, Ilya reached out and lifted her from the bedpost gently yet firmly, helping her sit upright.
The movement wasn’t rough, but it possessed a commanding sense of control that left no room for resistance.
Flora struggled slightly. “What are you…?”
“Feeding you,” she said in a calm tone. “At least for today.”
“I don’t need… I really…”
Ilya didn’t argue with her any further. She simply picked up the bowl, scooped another spoonful, blew on it gently, and naturally raised it to Flora’s lips.
Flora turned her head away. “I’m not eating.”
Ilya didn’t change her posture; she just held the spoon there quietly, waiting by her lips. The atmosphere was as still as a water’s surface — no force, but no backing down either.
They stayed in that silence for a long time.
Flora’s breathing gradually became erratic. She was clearly resisting, yet she was being driven into a corner by that gentle persistence.
Her brain felt a bit light from the prolonged fasting and mental exhaustion, and she could only see the spoon of food becoming increasingly blurry in the corner of her eye.
Finally, she feebly raised a hand, blocking it in front of her like a final act of stubbornness. “… I’ll eat it myself.”
Ilya looked at her without a word, simply placing the spoon into her hand.
Flora’s fingers trembled slightly when they touched the metal. She wanted to be independent, but she had to admit her body’s weakness.
She clumsily scooped up a bit, the spoon wobbling in midair as if it might drop at any moment.
She furrowed her brows, cursing herself in a whisper. “… So troublesome…”
Finally, as she raised her hand to put it in her mouth…
Her wrist gave way.
The spoon nearly fell.
Ilya reached out, steadying the handle within half a second.
Their fingertips touched lightly.
Flora pulled her hand back as if burned, her face flushing for a moment. “I — I just didn’t have a good grip.”
Ilya didn’t expose her, only gently taking the spoon. “I’ll feed you.”
“Flora.” Her voice was as light as a feather falling on water, yet it was enough to suppress any refusal. “Open your mouth.”
Flora shuddered, finally closing her eyes as she took the first bite.
The taste was much milder than she had imagined. There was no strange flavor; it was a bit sweet, a bit warm, and had a hint of medicinal fragrance that soothed her stomach.
The temperature was just right, and as it went down her throat, her chest involuntarily relaxed a little.
Ilya watched her reaction without speaking, silently scooping a second spoonful.
Flora’s eyelashes fluttered as if she wanted to muster the strength to resist again, but in the end, she didn’t open her mouth to refuse.
She lowered her head and muttered softly, “… I’m just hungry.”
Ilya gave a soft hum of acknowledgment. “Mhm.”
“It’s not because you told me to eat.”
“Mhm.”
“… And it’s not because I want you to take care of me.”
“I know.”
Ilya continued to feed her, spoonful by spoonful, her movements as meticulous as if she were tending to fragile glass.
Flora stopped speaking, only occasionally furrowing her brows or lightly turning her head in a small protest.
After the final spoonful, Ilya gently set the bowl down, her tone as soft as the lamplight.
“All finished. Good.”
Flora kept her head down, her long hair falling against the side of her face and obscuring her expression. Only after a few seconds did she speak softly.
“… I hate you.”
Ilya stood up and gently draped the blanket over her legs. “It’s okay.”
She walked to the door and opened it as quietly as before.
“Get some rest.”
Flora didn’t look up; she only hugged her knees tighter.
Ilya gave her one last look, and then the door clicked shut softly.
Only then did Flora lean her head against her knees, exhaling a soft breath.
She didn’t know exactly what was in that bowl, but the heaviness in her chest had indeed eased slightly.
Yet, her tears gradually began to flow.
Flora didn’t know how long she had been sitting there, but her breathing had slowly steadied.
Although the bowl of food had stopped her stomach from being empty, it couldn’t fill the panicked, hollow void in her chest.
She raised her head and looked into the mirror again. The glass was too large and angled right toward her, making it impossible to avoid.
The figure in the mirror sat quietly by the edge of the bed, long strands of hair scattered over her knees.
The purple at the ends of the hair shimmered faintly in the light, looking like colors bled through by water. The girl’s head was lowered, her hair covering half her face, making her look fragile and strange.
Flora stared at that face, a nameless sense of oppression rising in her throat. She forced herself to stand up.
Her feet stepped onto the carpet, and the cold sensation shot from her soles up to her calves, making her shudder involuntarily.
Walking to the mirror, she stood straight, facing the “stranger” inside.
She reached out and pinched her own cheek, confirming that the skin was real, the temperature was real, and it really was herself. It wasn’t a hallucination. It wasn’t a dream.
The texture was far too delicate and soft, like the skin of a newborn baby, without a single rough patch. The surface would dip slightly at the slightest touch of a fingertip.
She frowned and pinched a little harder, wanting the pain to tell her this wasn’t real.
The pain came. It was slight, but unmistakable.
She stared at the mirror, her hand slowly letting go, her fingertips trembling violently.
“… This isn’t me,” she whispered.
She grabbed her long hair and pulled it forward. The strands slid gently across her palm, so soft they seemed like they could slip through the cracks of her fingers.
It was unnervingly white, and the purple at the tips looked like a fresh layer of dye that had just begun to spread.
She stared at that white hair for several seconds, her chest feeling as if a block of ice had been shoved inside.
‘This really isn’t me…’
She looked up at her eyes.
Pale gold mixed with silver light, the pupils were narrow, and the eye shape was so soft it looked like it would scatter in the wind. She had never seen her eyes shine like this.
They were so bright they looked like someone else’s. So bright they made her want to look away.
Scrutiny.
She stared at herself in the mirror, suddenly feeling a surge of intense shame.
That shame wasn’t because the body appeared delicate, but because ‘that’s not me.’
She subconsciously wrapped her arms across her chest, feeling as uncomfortable as if someone were watching her. Even her own reflection made her feel like she was being scrutinized by a stranger.
“How did I become like this…?” she said again.
‘This isn’t Owen.’
‘Not the person who could charge into the training ground.’
‘Not the person who could carry several brothers and sprint all the way.’
‘Not the person who could eat late-night snacks with a few people and make a noisy scene.’
‘Not the person who could wrap an arm around his sister and say “follow me” with a laugh.’
The girl in the mirror… what part of her looked like Owen?
Flora’s hand, gripping the mirror frame, turned white. Her knuckles protruded, and her fingertips trembled slightly from the force.
It felt as if a stone were lodged in her chest, pressing down until her breathing became uneven.
The longer she stared into the mirror, the more it felt like her heart was being squeezed by someone.
“… I shouldn’t be here.”
She finally squeezed those words out.
Returning to the bed, she sat on the edge, her long hair sliding down her legs like a light cloud resting on her knees.
She grabbed a handful of hair, then let go, then grabbed it again, and let go once more — as if trying to digest that strangeness.
But every time her fingertips touched that softness that didn’t belong to her, she felt even worse. She raised her head and looked ahead, but her gaze drifted far away.