Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 131: Not Perfect, But Present

Chapter 131: Not Perfect, But Present

Artur stood in the middle of the field like a question unanswered, hands tucked deep in his jacket as if holding the weight of something unspeakable.

The sun had fully risen now — warm gold pouring across the grass, kissing the dew into mist.

But he didn’t feel it.

The cold didn’t touch him. Nor did the sun’s warmth. He just existed—somewhere in between.

Behind him, faint footsteps never came. And he didn’t need to turn to know that Mark hadn’t followed yet.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

He kicked gently at the earth near his boot, watching a small cloud of soil lift and settle again.

The world was still moving, even when his chest felt paused.

He let out a quiet sigh and sat down on the low stone that marked the old fence line. His shoulders slumped, but not from defeat — just tiredness.

And as the sun climbed higher, Artur tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

He didn’t think about Billy — not right now.

He thought about the ache he tried to carry quietly. The weight of pretending to be fine when every room felt too quiet now.

The strange mixture of relief and emptiness that came when people got what they needed — even if it meant they left you behind.

Maybe this was what healing looked like for everyone else.

But for him?

It still looked like waiting.

The sun was higher now, brushing the tall grass with golden fingers. A breeze swept low, stirring wildflowers at Artur’s feet.

He sat still on the old stone, hands clasped between his knees, head tilted toward the light but eyes open — waiting without watching.

Then— the sound of footsteps.

Soft, careful, approaching from behind.

Artur didn’t turn. He didn’t have to.

Mark’s voice came first, quiet and edged with apology.

"Sorry we took a while."

Artur stayed still for a moment, then said simply:

"You didn’t have to come."

Jay stepped beside Mark, his gaze lowered.

"We wanted to."

Artur finally looked up at them.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either.

Just looked.

And in that look — everything unspoken passed between them.

The three of them stood in the morning light now, nothing forced, nothing pressed. Just... there.

Mark crouched beside the stone, resting one arm on his knee.

"We talked."

Artur raised a brow.

"Yeah? That bad, huh?"

Mark huffed out a faint laugh. Jay rolled his eyes.

"It wasn’t that bad," Jay muttered.

Artur’s lips twitched — the closest thing to a smile he’d managed all morning.

"Well," he said, voice soft, "glad someone had a decent morning."

Mark looked at him, more serious now.

"It wasn’t about being decent."

Jay added, quietly:

"We just didn’t want to lose the moment again."

Artur’s gaze lingered on them — on Jay’s sincerity, on Mark’s guilt — and finally, with a breath, he stood.

"Alright," he said, brushing off his pants. "Then let’s not waste the rest of it."

Mark looked surprised. Jay blinked.

"Wait, that’s it? No lecture?"

"Nope." Artur started walking toward the toolshed. "You both look emotionally exhausted. I’ll let the shovel do the rest."

Jay snorted. Mark laughed.

A sparrow landed on the fence post, chirped once, and took off again—like everything else that never stayed long.

And like that — without a grand scene, without heavy talks — they followed him into the field.

Together.

Not perfect. But present.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

Back in the city the Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, painting quiet stripes across the bedroom wall. The apartment was still, but not in a lonely way — in a calm, waiting sort of way.

Billy stood near the mirror, buttoning the last of his shirt.

The movement was slow, not sluggish — more like measured. He was dressed simple, neat. Still figuring out who this version of him was.

Behind him, Camila leaned against the doorway with a soft smile.

"You don’t look as pale as yesterday," she said, teasing just enough.

Billy glanced over his shoulder.

"Maybe I slept better."

He hadn’t. Not really. But the quiet helped.

She stepped in and handed him the old phone.

"You forgot this. Mom wanted me to make sure it’s on you. Just in case."

He took it, thumb brushing over the familiar screen.

"Right. Thanks."

Camila studied him for a beat.

"You sure you’re ready for this? We don’t have to rush."

Billy gave a small nod.

"I don’t know if I’m ready. But I want to go."

That was enough.

She smiled — the kind only siblings know how to give — and reached for her bag.

"Alright. Let’s not keep the doctor waiting."

The car ride was quiet at first.

The streets buzzed gently around them — horns, vendors, the scent of warm bread and pavement in the air.

But inside the vehicle, it was like a bubble.

Just the two of them, and the distance between where they were... and wherever this next stop might lead.

Billy turned his head toward the window.

Camila glanced at him.

"You okay?"

"Just thinking."

A pause.

"Where’s Mom?" he asked. "Didn’t see her this morning."

"She went to the office," Camila replied. "Uncle Frank too. Dad’s still out of the country — he’s flying in tomorrow. They said they’ll be back in time to talk once you’re home."

Billy nodded slowly, absorbing it all like puzzle pieces he wasn’t sure where to place yet.

Then Camila added, gently:

"After this... if you want, we can pass by your old place. Might help... you know, spark something."

Billy looked at her.

"Yeah. Maybe."

They reached the quiet street outside the medical center. Camila parked carefully, turned off the engine, and looked at him again.

"You don’t have to remember everything today," she said softly. "Just... let this be one step. That’s"But if you do, I’m still buying lunch after."

Billy opened the door.

The sun was warm as he stepped out.

"One step," he repeated quietly. Then glanced up at the building.

"Let’s go."

The front desk welcomed them with soft voices and a warm scent of antiseptic and lemon polish.

Everything was clean, too clean — like even the air had been folded and pressed.

Billy followed Camila in silence. His steps were slow, not reluctant, just... cautious.

The receptionist glanced up with a polite smile.

"Mr. Leon?"

Billy nodded.

"Yes."

"Welcome. Dr. Harris is reviewing your file. In the meantime, we’ll begin with your pre-scheduled imaging. It won’t take long."

Camila gave his arm a light squeeze.

"I’ll wait here."

Billy followed the nurse down the hall. The door to the scan room opened with a soft hiss. Inside, the machine hummed — silver, circular, sterile.

It was quiet except for the low murmur of the technician giving instructions.

He lay still.

The ceiling above him was white, unblinking.

"Try not to move, Mr. Leon. Just breathe."

He breathed. He didn’t blink. He didn’t think—because if he did, he might realize how terrified he was of losing the pieces he’d just started to understand.

Just the hum of the machine. And the stillness of memory, waiting somewhere deep inside his skull.

The scan was done, his chest still faintly buzzing from the cold of the room.

Billy sat on the cushioned bench in the exam room, fingers tapping lightly against his knee.

Camila sat beside him, trying to stay casual, though her thumb kept flicking over her phone screen — not reading anything. Just waiting.

The door opened gently.

"Good morning," came a calm, steady voice.

Dr. Harris stepped inside, holding a slim tablet and wearing a kind but neutral expression. Late forties, well-composed, sharp eyes behind thin glasses. A man who knew how to read silence almost as well as charts.

"Leon," he greeted, offering a light handshake. "Camila. Thanks for coming in."

Billy nodded faintly.

"Thanks for seeing me."

Dr. Harris sat on the stool across from them and adjusted the screen.

"We’ve reviewed your scans and ran a few focused neurocognitive assessments today," he said, voice professional but warm. "Your physical health is generally stable. Vital signs, bloodwork — no red flags."

Billy’s gaze stayed steady, unreadable.

"But..."

Dr. Harris exhaled lightly. Not heavy. Just measured.

"But your memory function is showing signs of localized disruption — likely trauma-induced.

Based on where the neurological activity drops, it aligns with the injury noted on your file from the incident."

Camila shifted beside him.

"What does that mean exactly?"

Dr. Harris turned the screen slightly, displaying a 3D scan of Billy’s brain, marked with light overlays.

"The hippocampus and nearby regions show reduced signal strength.

That’s consistent with retrograde amnesia — which matches Billy’s symptoms. The issue is, recovery without intervention may stall at a certain point."

Billy’s fingers stilled on his knee.

"So what happens now?"

Dr. Harris paused.

Then, carefully:

"There is a procedure we can consider. A neurosurgical stimulation — minimally invasive, but not risk-free. It involves targeted electrical pulses to reactivate dormant memory pathways."

Billy’s expression barely shifted.

"Surgery?"

"Yes," Dr. Harris said gently. "It isn’t cutting into tissue. It’s more like reawakening regions through controlled impulse. But we don’t recommend it lightly."

Camila leaned forward.

"Will it bring his memory back?"

"There’s no guarantee," Dr. Harris admitted. "It might restore fragments. It might stabilize memory function. Or... it might do nothing.

And there’s always risk — disorientation, temporary setbacks, in rare cases, emotional imbalance."

Billy’s voice was soft, but steady.

"Would it make me forget what I remember now?"

A pause. Dr. Harris held his gaze.

"That’s a possibility we have to prepare for."

Silence settled in the room.

Camila reached for Billy’s hand — her grip was light, not to sway him, just to anchor him.

Dr. Harris closed the file softly.

"You don’t need to decide today. We’ll continue observation, support therapy, and evaluate options together. You’re not alone in this."

Billy gave a slight nod, but it felt like he was agreeing to carry something too heavy for one hand—something made of memory, risk, and hope.