Patient B-2

Chapter Twenty: Avalyn

 "Are you upset with me?" he asks, catching me off guard.

 "Why would I be upset with you?" I rush out, shaking my head as I turn to look at him.

 "Well, why aren't you sitting with me?" he frowns, his eyes drifting to the space in front of him.

 I blink a couple of times, puzzled by his sudden shift. "I'm not upset with you. You haven't done anything," I assure him, maintaining my position in the corner, as far away from him as this cell allows.

 "You're still not next to me," he murmurs, his eyes wide and unwavering as they remain fixed on mine.

 "You want me to sit next to you?" I respond, my eyes narrowing slightly as I maintain the intensity of our eye contact.

 He nods, his gaze dropping as it traces over my figure. "Yeah, right there," he says, pointing to the spot in front of him. "I like being close to you."

 I chew on my lip nervously, slowly rising to my feet, feeling a bit unsteady from the combination of exhaustion and my weakened state. Throughout this week, we haven't exchanged many words. My conversations have mostly been with Jeannette, partly because he gives me the creeps. It's not that he scares me; he seems like a genuinely sweet man. However, the way his gaze lingers on me as if he's unable to tear his attention away, is unnerving as fuck. I've called him out on it a few times, the only instances we've spoken this week, each time resulting in a hurried and bashful apology.

 Despite my calling him out and his apologies, he continues to stare every day. It's relentless. Hours pass, and still, his gaze remains fixed on me. Even Jeannette has asked him to cut it out, though she for some reason finds amusement in it, chuckling each time she's forced to intervene. The persistence of it all leaves me on edge, a constant reminder of his unsettling fixation.

 He's giving me puppy-dog eyes as I approach him, and I can't help but wonder if he's even aware of it. There's an air of cluelessness about him, if I'm being honest. Yet, strangely, it's kind of cute. It's as if he doesn't realize just how odd he can be. But considering his limited social interactions, it makes sense that he might be lacking in that area.

 Sometimes I find myself torn between the urge to pinch his cheeks affectionately or physically redirect his gaze, much like right now. Lowering myself next to him, the unwavering eye contact we maintain has my stomach turning. I've always been an anxious girl, so prolonged eye contact makes me nervous. I never quite know the acceptable amount of time to look at someone, often getting caught up in figuring out which eye to focus on and losing track of the conversation. But right now, it doesn't seem to matter. He doesn't seem to mind whether I'm looking at him or not; his eyes stay fixed on me regardless. Opting to meet his gaze with determination, I choose to stare into his white eye.

 "Closer," he whispers.

 "No, thanks," I shoot back, feeling goosebumps at his words.

 If I were to get any closer, I'd be pressing myself up against the bars. It's unclear if that's what he's looking for because there's simply no physical way for me to get closer. I can't liquefy myself and slide over to his side of the cell.

 I roll my lips inward, tucking my knees to my chest as I fix my gaze on the cement wall to my right. "Can I hold your hand?" he asks shyly.

 "You said you were just sixteen?" I hastily switch the conversation, feeling incredibly awkward at his request.

 He doesn't seem to notice, his face lighting up at the simple fact that I've engaged with him. "Yes," he rushes out, beaming with excitement. "My father found out about my mother's affair and wasn't pleased to hear that his only heir wasn't actually an heir. So, he rid himself of me."