The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 112

In the hazy depths of unconsciousness, something brushed gently against Garrison's face.

It was feather-light, like a passing breeze.

Garrison forced his eyes open, his vision swimming for a moment before snapping into focus.

A young woman's face hovered above him.

She looked about twenty, dark hair cascading over her shoulders with loose, natural waves at the ends. Her complexion was radiant, glowing with a vibrant, luminous health. Her deep, striking eyes were dark and bright as obsidian submerged in a clear spring, and they were staring at him with undisguised concern.

She wore a simple white sundress, a pale blue ribbon tied at the collar, looking like a nostalgic vision stepped straight out of a vintage photograph.

"Garrison?" she asked softly. "Are you alright? Is it your stomach?"

Garrison tried to answer, but his throat felt like sandpaper.

He realized he was slumped on the floor, his back pressed against a cold wall. The surroundings were unfamiliar—a long corridor with white walls, sunlight spilling in from the far end, and the muffled echoes of laughter in the distance. It felt like... somewhere on a university campus.

"Who are you?" he croaked, barely recognizing his own gravelly voice.

The girl blinked, then offered a shy, sympathetic smile.

"I saw you having a lot of drinks at the graduation ceremony earlier. When you came out of the restroom, I found you slumped here holding your stomach..." She paused. "Is it cramping? Do you want me to call the campus medic?"

Garrison stared at her blankly. He understood the words, but piecing them together left him completely disoriented.

Wasn't he just in the lab?

Why was he back at school?

Without waiting for an answer, the girl reached into her canvas tote bag and pulled out a pale pink insulated tumbler. She twisted the cap off, releasing a wisp of warm steam.

"It's just warm water," she said, offering the cup to him. "If you don't mind, you should take a few sips. The warmth will soothe your stomach."

Garrison stared down at the tumbler.

He never accepted food or drink from strangers. His upbringing had drilled it into him to never consume anything unsolicited.

Yet, as if possessing a will of its own, his hand reached out and took the cup.

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