Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 21 - Chapitre 30

(Olandria’s POV) My grip tightened around the phone. I knew it. That voice I hadn't heard for months. Not just the sound of it, but the weight behind it. The way it slipped under my skin before I could stop it. The way my body reacted before my mind caught up. I just… didn’t want to. “…Say something,” she continued, impatience creeping in now. “Or are you pretending you don’t recognize me?” For a second, I said nothing. The silence stretched long enough that it almost felt like I could still hang up and pretend this never happened. But that had never worked before. “…I know it's you, Clare.” I said finally, my voice quieter than I intended. There was a pause on the other end. Then a soft, humorless laugh. “Good,” she said. “I’d hate to think I raised someone that forgetful.” Raised…more like groomed a piggy bank. Around me, the room had started to come back to life; chairs shifting, people talking, laughter slipping through in bursts,

(Olandria’s POV) Dinner tasted like nothing exceptional. Not bad. Not good. It was just… there. Karl talked about something random loudly enough to fill the silence I kept drifting into. From a girl sitting beside us in the lecture hall who kept sharpening her pencil like it owed her money to someone else who nearly cried over charcoal shading. Things that should have been funny. I nodded in the right places, laughed when I was supposed to and kept pushing food around my plate like I was doing something with it. “You’re chewing air,” Karl said, squinting at me when she figured I was indeed not with her. “I’m eating,” I replied, lifting my pasta-filled fork like proof. “You’ve been ‘eating’ that same fork of pasta for five minutes.” “It’s a process.” She stared at me for a second longer than necessary, then sighed and leaned back in her chair. “You’re boring.” “You love me.” I gave her a toothie grin. “Debatable.” That ear

(Olandria’s POV) Breakfast was loud. Not in volume, people were always talking, but in the way everything seemed sharper. Cut clearer. Like every clink of cutlery, every laugh, every chair scraping against the floor landed a little too precisely. It was as though my senses hadn’t quite settled from the night before or maybe I just hadn’t. The cafeteria buzzed with early energy. Sunlight streamed through the wide windows, catching on trays, glass cups, and the occasional impatient expression of someone who hadn’t had enough sleep. The smell of toast, bacons, eggs, and something overly sweet hung in the air, warm and familiar, but it didn’t quite reach me. I sat near the far end of the table, pushing food around my plate like I was negotiating with it. I wasn’t hungry. Not really, but had to eat because the day was going to be long. We got emails on the day's drill and it sure was going to be draining. Karl dropped into the seat across from me with her tray, the legs of the chai

(Olandria’s POV) My breath caught and I stilled. The water kept running over my fingers, cold now, slipping between them like I’d forgotten they were there. Slowly, I lifted my head, eyes meeting hers in the mirror. Lydia. She stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, posture relaxed in a way that didn’t match the look in her dark eyes. Her gaze moved over me slowly, like she was trying to figure something out and didn’t like the answer she was getting. “You’ve gotten comfortable,” she said again. I turned off the tap, reaching for a paper towel. My hands were still faintly stained green, with most of the paints gone. “I’ve always been comfortable,” I replied, my tone even. She hummed softly, stepping further into the restroom. “That’s funny,” she said. “That’s not what I see.” I didn’t respond. She stopped a few steps behind me, close enough that I could feel her breath against my neck. “Group leader,” she added, her eyes flicking to my hands, then back to my

(Olandria’s POV) By the time I got back to my room, the day hadn’t quite settled, I felt slightly off-balance. I pushed the door open, stepping inside, already halfway through untying the knot at the back of my apron before I noticed Ernest’s presence. He sat on the edge of his bed, one leg stretched out, the other bent, a camera resting loosely in his hands. He glanced up when I entered, his gaze settling on me for a second longer than necessary. “…Green.” I blinked. “What?” He gestured vaguely toward me. “You look like you fought a tree and lost.” I looked down at myself. Paint everywhere. “…It was a controlled loss,” I said, dropping my bag. He hummed, unconvinced. “Doesn’t look controlled.” I shot him a look, moving toward the sink. “You didn’t see the other people.” “I don’t need to,” he said easily. “You’re the reference point now.” I paused for a second, then shook my head slightly, turning on the tap. Water rushed over my fingers, washing away the last of the