4. Clementine

Clementine

As I curled into myself later that night, a deep sadness filled me.

It felt like I’d lost something— orsomeone.

I was confused and annoyed with myself for feeling that way.

“What’s wrong, Clem?” James asked, molding his body to mine as he turned in bed.

His skin was cool and I instinctively leaned into him.

“I can hear your thoughts,” he murmured softly into my neck after I failed to respond. “Tell me what’s bothering you; I want to help.”

I closed my eyes, knowing I should confide in him, but feeling unable to put my tumultuous emotions into words. How could I explain the inexplicable connection I felt toward a patient? A man who claimed to have lived an entire life with me in his dreams?

“It’s nothing,” I lied, hating myself for the deception. “Just tired from a long day.”

James’s arms tightened around me, and I felt a pang of guilt. He was a good man, kind and devoted. We’d built a life together that I’d never questioned until today.

Why did I feel this hollowness in my chest all of a sudden?

“You seemed distracted tonight at dinner,” he murmured, his breath warm against my skin. “Is it the wedding planning? We can postpone if you need more time.”

I shook my head.

“No, it’s not that,” I said, trying to inject some reassurance into my voice as I turned to face him. “I’m just... processing some things from work.”

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look at me. “Anything you want to talk about?”

I hesitated, torn between my desire to confide in him and my fear of the implications. “It’s just... have you ever had a patient that really got to you? That made you question things?”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“We all have cases that affect us, Clem. It’s part of the job. But we can’t let them consume us.”

I nodded, knowing he was right, but feeling unsatisfied with the answer.

“I know. It’s just... this patient, he...”

I trailed off, unsure how to continue. How could I explain Leyland’s vivid “memories” of our life together without sounding completely insane? And for unknown reasons, I wanted to protect him, too. His trauma felt like my own.

James waited patiently, his dark eyes searching mine. I took a deep breath and shared a version of the truth.

“This patient, he had some very vivid experiences while in his coma,” I said carefully. “He... he believes he lived an entire life, with memories and relationships that feel real to him. It made me think about the nature of consciousness, of reality.”

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful yet... something else I couldn't quite place.

Did he know I was talking about Leyland? We had shared him as a patient and the nurses knew he’d had dreams of another life, just not that the life had been with me.

“That’s not uncommon in coma patients,” he said. “The brain is unique in that way, but it’s important to remember that they’re not real, Clem. They’re just the mind’s way of coping with trauma.”

I hummed, feeling a mix of relief that he didn’t probe further and disappointment that he couldn’t understand the depth of what I was grappling with.

“You’re right,” I mumbled, trying to convince myself. “It’s just... unsettling, I guess. To think about how fragile our perception of reality can be.”

James leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead.

“That’s why we have each other,” he murmured. “To anchor us in reality.”

I closed my eyes, feeling another wave of intense guilt wash over me. James was my anchor, my partner in life and work. He was everything I had ever thought I wanted. So why did I feel this inexplicable pull towards a man I barely knew?

“Get some rest,” he went on, settling back onto his pillow. “Things will look clearer in the morning.”

I tried, but sleep eluded me.

After a while, I carefully slipped from bed and padded quietly to the living room with my phone in hand. I got comfortable on the couch, wrapping myself in a soft throw blanket before opening my phone’s web browser and searching for Leyland online.

To my surprise, several results popped up. He was an artist—more than just a man who sketched for fun, like it seemed he’d been doing in the hospital—with a rather large reputation in the local art scene.

I clicked through to his biography.

Leyland Graham, thirty-two, born and raised in Austin. He’d studied art at Howard University and had been steadily building his career over the past decade. Nothing in his history suggested any connection to me or to St. Mercy Hospital before his accident.

I scrolled through images of his artwork, my eyes widening as I took in the vibrant colors and emotive brushstrokes. His paintings were stunning—landscapes that seemed to pulse with life, portraits that captured the very essence of their subjects. I could see why he’d been able to gain the attention of art lovers worldwide.

Why did I feel a sense of pride filling me?

For a man I didn’t even know… For a man… For a man, I wanted to know.

With a frustrated huff, I tossed my phone to the other side of the couch.

The rational part of me knew I should put this whole situation out of my mind. Leyland was just a patient, with a unique story. Nothing more or less.

And yet...

I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more going on here.

The way he’d looked at me was unreal. The impossible details he knew about my life. The inexplicable pull I felt towards him, despite having just met.

I glanced at my phone, tempted to pick it up again and lose myself in his artwork. But I resisted. This wasn’t healthy. I had a life, a career, a fiancé. I couldn’t let myself get caught up in some impossible fantasy.

With a sigh, I pushed myself up from the couch and headed back to the bedroom.

Maybe James was right, and by morning, things would look clearer.