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Chapter 64 – Arya's POV
"The Unseen Signs"
I was tired.
Not the kind of tired that came from working late or staying up too long binging documentaries with Damon. No — this was a deep, sinking tiredness that clung to my bones and made everything feel heavier.
Even breathing.
I sat behind the gallery desk, staring blankly at the emails piling up on my screen. I blinked, hoping it would sharpen my vision, but everything still looked like it was swimming. A dizzy wave passed through me, and I quickly looked away from the screen, pressing my fingers to my temple.
"You good?" Serena, one of our interns, asked as she passed by with a stack of flyers.
I smiled faintly. "Just a headache. I'll be fine."
She looked like she wanted to say more, but I waved her off with a thank-you and returned to pretending I wasn't on the verge of curling up under the desk to sleep.
The truth was, I hadn't been feeling fine for the past few weeks.
At first, I'd chalked it up to stress. Planning back-to-back events, late gallery nights, keeping up with commissions — it wasn't unusual for me to burn out every once in a while. But then came the nausea. Subtle at first. A discomfort that lingered in the mornings. Then it turned into something more… persistent.
I couldn't even smell coffee now without my stomach churning.
Which was tragic.
Coffee and I had a long, passionate relationship. But lately, just opening a bag of beans made my throat tighten.
And then there were the mood swings.
One moment, I'd be humming along to a painting playlist while sketching out a new concept, and the next, I'd be snapping at Damon for chewing too loud — only to cry in the bathroom ten minutes later for "overreacting."
Last night, I nearly burst into tears because my favorite cardigan had a loose thread.
I knew I wasn't myself.
And that was the problem.
I didn't know who I was anymore.
---
Damon noticed, of course.
"You've been sleeping more than usual," he said one evening as I curled up on the couch, eyes heavy before it even hit 9 p.m.
"I'm just tired," I mumbled.
"Since when do you nap twice in a day?"
I didn't answer.
He moved closer, gently brushing a hand down my arm. "Are you okay?"
And I wanted to say yes. Wanted to believe it was just a weird flu, a bad week, a strange slump in energy.
But the truth was… something felt off.
I wasn't sick. Not exactly.
I just… wasn't right.
---
The next morning started with me running to the bathroom halfway through brushing my teeth. My stomach lurched violently, and I barely made it to the sink.
When I finally looked up at myself in the mirror, I saw it.
Pale skin. Tired eyes. And this… odd sense of unease I couldn't shake.
It followed me into the gallery, where I barely managed to hold down a slice of toast and found myself snapping at Serena over the wrong frame size for a client.
"I'm sorry," I muttered afterward, rubbing my temple. "I didn't mean to take it out on you."
She nodded, eyes wide, clearly startled. "No worries."
But I felt awful.
This wasn't me. I didn't lose my cool with staff. I didn't feel like this. Foggy. Emotional. Unbalanced.
I wasn't even sure what I was emotional about anymore.
---
Later that day, Damon dropped by with lunch. I stared at the grilled chicken salad like it was a plate of rubber.
He noticed immediately.
"You didn't eat breakfast, did you?"
"I tried," I muttered.
He reached out and took my hand across the table. "Arya… is something going on? You've been quiet lately. Tired. Snappy."
I looked away, guilt swirling in my chest. "I don't know. I just feel… off."
He tilted his head. "Are you sick? Should I call someone?"
"No," I said quickly, maybe too quickly. "It's not like that. I don't have a fever. I'm just… tired. Maybe my iron's low again."
He didn't push, but I could see the concern behind his eyes. Damon had changed in so many ways, but one thing remained: he could read me better than I read myself sometimes.
I squeezed his hand. "I'll be fine. Just need rest."
He nodded, but his hand lingered a moment longer, like he wasn't convinced.
Neither was I.
---
That evening, as I sat in the studio going through sketches, another wave of exhaustion crashed over me. I dropped the pencil and pressed my palm to my forehead.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
It'll pass.
But it didn't. Not really.
I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair, letting the quiet fill the room.
Then the question floated through my mind — uninvited, soft, persistent.
What if it's not stress?
What if it's something else?
I brushed the thought away as quickly as it came.
No. That couldn't be it.
Could it?
My heart skipped.
But I wasn't ready to open that door.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
So I got up, made some tea I didn't want, and told myself again: You're just tired. That's all.
But deep down, a quiet voice whispered the truth I hadn't admitted yet.
Something was changing.
And I had no idea just how much.