Chapter Text
The phone buzzed across the table once, then a second time.
Felix barely glanced at it. He was knee-deep in pretending not to exist, half-watching a muted crime show, half-scrolling through nothing in particular, a half-eaten takeout container sitting cold beside him.
He wasn’t in the mood for real life. He rarely was these days.
It buzzed again. He sighed, more out of habit than irritation, and finally reached for it.
Unknown Number.
Area code: Sydney.
His hand paused mid-reach.
He hadn’t seen that area code in years.
His thumb hovered. He stared like the number might disappear if he waited long enough.
But it didn’t.
So he answered.
“Hello?”
There was a pause, too long to be nothing. Then a woman’s voice, polite and practiced.
“Hi, is this Felix Lee?”
His name landed soft but sharp, like someone dropping glass on carpet.
“Yeah,” he said, adjusting his grip on the phone. “Speaking.”
The line crackled faintly, followed by the shuffling of paper and the familiar beep of something medical in the background. Then:
“I’m calling from Saint Mark’s Medical Center in Sydney. You’re listed as the emergency contact for… Sky Kim?”
The name hit him like a punch to the chest.
Sky.
It had been years since he’d heard that name out loud, years since he’d allowed himself to say it.
He sat up straighter. “Yes. That’s… that’s my sister.”
“She was admitted last night,” the woman continued gently. “There was an incident, nothing critical, but her mental state was compromised. We’ve stabilized her. She’s safe. But she listed you as her only contact.”
Felix felt the air thicken. His fingers gripped the edge of the couch, knuckles white.
He hadn’t known Sky still remembered his number, let alone would give it to someone.
He should have said something; asked what happened, how bad it really was. But all he could manage was a quiet, choked: “Okay.”
“She’s not talking much,” the woman added. “But she asked for you.”
He swallowed. The apartment was suddenly too quiet. The crime show on TV kept flashing images: blood, blurred faces, dramatic reenactments; but it felt far away. Meaningless.
He’d built his life like this: empty space, empty noise, and enough distance to feel safe.
And now Sky had reached right through all of it with just a name and a phone call.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
The nurse gave him visiting hours. Directions. Her tone was kind, but measured, like she knew he wasn’t really listening.
He thanked her. Hung up.
Then just… sat there.
His hand slowly lowered the phone onto the table, like it might explode if he moved too fast.
Sky.
He whispered the name like it was something fragile, something dangerous. He hadn’t let himself think about her in years. Not properly. Not without guilt gnawing at the edges.
He rose to his feet and started packing. Clothes. Toothbrush. The charger he always forgot until the last minute. His hands trembled more than he wanted to admit.
In the bedroom, he passed his nightstand. A photo frame sat there, facedown, untouched.
He didn’t turn it over.
Didn’t need to. He knew what was in it.
Two kids with tired eyes and matching bruises. One had just learned how to run. The other hadn’t yet figured out how.
He zipped his bag. Stared at the front door.
His chest felt heavy. Like regret had finally decided to settle into his lungs and refused to let him breathe easy.
He wasn’t ready. But he was going anyway.
The hospital smelled like disinfectant and old plastic. Not quite clean; just scrubbed down to hide whatever had been spilled the day before.
Felix hated hospitals. Not in the obvious way, everyone hated them. But this was different. His stomach had been knotted since the moment he stepped off the train, and now that he was actually here, in these fluorescent-lit halls, the knot was burning.
It was too bright. Too quiet. Too full of memories.
A nurse led him down a long corridor in the psychiatric wing, murmuring as they walked.
“She’s been withdrawn since admission. Eating a little. Sleeping some. She asked for you, but she hasn't said much else.”
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
He wondered if Sky would even want to see him when he walked in. If she’d change her mind. If she’d look at him with that same flat, guarded stare she used to give their father, like emotions were just weapons waiting to be used against them.
The nurse stopped in front of a door. Room 229. She didn’t open it. Just looked at him.
“She’s awake,” she said softly. “Be gentle.”
Felix nodded. He wasn’t sure if he still knew how.
The hospital door shut with a soft, metallic click behind him, and for a moment, Felix just stood there, his hand still on the knob.
He hadn’t seen Sky in five years. Maybe six. The dates blurred together now, a mess of half-written texts and calls he never made. But time hadn’t dulled the familiarity. Not really.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, one knee pulled up under her chin, the other leg dangling, blue-socked toes barely brushing the tile. Her face was turned toward the window, though the blinds were crooked and barely let the sunlight in. Her hair was a lot longer now, messier. It fell around her face in waves, catching the light in light brown streaks. There was a healing cut on her cheek and bandages on her wrist.
Felix felt something crack deep in his chest, quiet and invisible. He hadn’t cried yet. He didn’t think he would. The tears were too old now; burnt up and buried. But seeing Sky like this? It hurt in a place he’d trained himself to ignore.
She didn’t look up right away. Didn’t speak. Just watched the sliver of sun on the floor like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the room.
Felix swallowed.
“Hey.”
She blinked. Slowly. Her gaze turned to him like it was moving through water; heavy, reluctant, exhausted.
“Took you long enough,” Sky said, voice hoarse from silence, maybe from screaming.
Felix attempted a smile, but it collapsed somewhere halfway. “Yeah. I guess it did.”
He stepped forward carefully, like the floor might break beneath him. There was a single plastic chair beside the bed, the kind that didn’t care how long you’d be sitting in it. He lowered himself into it without asking, hands clutched together in his lap. He didn’t know if Sky would let him stay. He didn’t know if he deserved to.
“I didn’t know,” he said after a moment. “About any of this.”
Sky didn’t answer. Her eyes slid back to the window. Something unreadable passed across her face.
Felix followed her gaze. Outside, the sky was the color of cold milk, overcast and quiet. A bird darted past the glass, but neither of them mentioned it.
“I’m here now,” Felix offered.
It came out softer than he meant it to. Almost desperate.
Sky’s eyes met his again. Sharper, this time.
“You’re late.”
There was no venom in it. Just a truth spoken aloud after years of being swallowed whole.
Felix’s breath caught. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words disintegrated before they made it out.
Sky turned back toward the window. A beat passed. Then two.
Finally, she said, quieter this time, “I needed you. Back then.”
Felix felt like he’d been punched, but from the inside. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands now rubbing together. He stared at the floor.
“I know.”
He reached his hand out towards his sister. Sky glanced away for a moment, before fixating her eyes on the limb.
“You still chew your nails when you’re nervous.”
Felix blinked. Then looked down.
Sure enough, thumb raw, cuticle frayed. He gave a small, sheepish laugh.
“Some habits die hard.”
Sky leaned back slowly, unfolding her legs from her chest. The blankets rustled faintly. She didn’t smile, but something behind her eyes eased, just a little.
“You used to make me stop,” he added. “You’d smack my hand every time.”
“I was thirteen,” she muttered, deadpan. “I thought I was a therapist.”
He chuckled, quiet and real. It surprised him how easily it came.
Sky didn’t laugh, but she let herself look at him properly. It was the first time he didn’t feel like a ghost in the room.
“You still have that scar on your chin?” she asked suddenly.
He touched it without thinking. “Yeah.”
“From when you tried to skateboard down the stairs.”
“I maintain it was a good idea in theory.”
“You cried for an hour.”
“I bled for two.”
Sky tilted her head just slightly. “Mom yelled at me for letting you do it.”
Felix frowned. “You were eight.”
“She still blamed me.”
They both went quiet for a moment, but it wasn’t the same as before. The silence didn’t bite this time. It just existed—like breath between words.
Felix nodded toward the little TV mounted in the corner. “Have they let you watch anything decent?”
Sky shrugged. “Not really. Mostly news. Cooking shows. I think I’ve memorized the entire Food Network schedule by now.”
“Still hate onions?”
“They still taste like battery acid.”
Felix laughed again. A real one, this time. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “You ever cook anything yourself, or just judge the contestants?”
Sky considered. “Once. Burned pasta to the bottom of a pot so bad I had to throw the pot away.”
“Impressive.”
“I thought so.”
The light coming through the blinds shifted, bleeding slowly toward gold. Afternoon was inching closer to evening, and the hospital felt quieter than before, like it was holding its breath between shifts.
Felix leaned forward again, elbows on his knees.
“I’ve missed this,” he said quietly. “You. Even just talking.”
Sky didn’t answer for a long moment.
Then: “You look older.”
He snorted. “Gee, thanks.”
“Not bad-old. Just… different.”
“Same goes for you.”
Sky hummed. “I feel like a grandma.” Her face contorted into a pained expression as she coughed, dry and objectively painful.
Felix smiled first, then paused. “Do you want me to stay a little longer? I can leave, if you want space.”
Her lips pressed together as she calmed down. Then she said, “No, I wanted you here. You can stay.”
She reached for the cup of water on the bedside table, fingers pale against the plastic.
“But don’t touch the remote,” she added. “I’m rewatching an episode of Chopped where some guy makes ice cream with hot sauce and thinks it’s revolutionary.”
Felix grinned. “Sounds like a crime.”
“It is.”
He settled in deeper, the plastic chair creaking beneath him. And for the first time in years, he felt like maybe, just maybe, there was a way back to her. A way to rebuild something that had almost been lost.
For now, they didn’t talk about what happened.
They just watched the sun fall across the walls and let themselves exist in the same room for the first time in years.