I don't know if it's day or night. I don't even know how many days I've been like this—or if it's still the same day, stretched painfully long like someone dragging fingernails over raw skin.
All I can see is the goddamn white ceiling. White like bones. White like lies. White like nothingness.
But I know one thing.
Pain.
It isn't just physical. It's everywhere—chewing into the nerves, pulsing in places I didn't even know existed. My chest feels like it's caved in, like someone dropped a mountain on it and walked away. I can't move. I can't lift a finger. I try. I fucking try. But all I get is a scream that won't come out and the tube shoved down my throat like punishment.
The air smells like hospital disinfectant and metal. And death.
That hand. That cold fucking hand.
It haunts me. I don't even know if he's alive. I don't know if I killed him.
I want to scream but my throat is gagged with pain and plastic. I'm choking in silence, drowning in my own head.
Did I kill someone?
Did someone die because of me?
Did I take a life while I'm still breathing like this?
The thought drills into my skull like a rusted screw. I can't stop it. I can't escape it.
If I just hadn't stepped into the road like a reckless idiot. If I had looked. If I had waited one more second.
God.
If someone died…
If that hand belonged to someone I fucking killed—then I don't deserve this air in my lungs.
I don't deserve to be here.
It's a curse now.
Every breath. Every second. Every blink.
This… this is punishment. And I deserve every ounce of it.
My eyes sting. Hot tears burn paths down my face.
I can't even cry properly. I just… leak. Like my body's grieving in silence while my mind screams bloody murder.
And suddenly, that's not the only thing I'm grieving.
Are they waiting for me?
My family—are they outside? Are they praying for me to wake up or did they already give up? Are they sad? Do they still believe I'll open my eyes and say something smart and sarcastic again? Or am I just another body under a white sheet in their mind?
Fuck.
The image of my mom's face. My dad's quiet way of sitting in a corner when he's scared.
Did I make them cry?
God, I'm such a fuck-up.
And then there's my friends.
Shaiza, Ifrah, Ruby. The three lunatics who never let me breathe in peace. Who were smiling like idiots just hours before it happened.
It was Ruby's day. Her big café opening. The one she worked her ass off for.
The first day of her dream.
And I—
I turned that into a goddamn nightmare.
I fucking ruined it. I probably ruined everything.
I imagine Ruby crying instead of happy.
I imagine Ifrah standing in a hospital corridor instead of teasing me about her next failed project.
I imagine Shaiza not talking. Not even eating.
And I want to puke but I can't even move.
This is all my mistake.
Every bit of it.
Every smile I ruined.
Every fucking tear I caused.
I should've been more careful. I should've—
And then, another name slips in.
Uninvited. Unwanted.
Aydin.
I feel sick in a different way now.
Two weeks ago, I was supposed to be someone's fiancée.
His fiancée.
If this accident hadn't happened, I'd be wearing some overpriced diamond and smiling for pictures I didn't mean. My life would've been gift-wrapped in bullshit and fake smiles.
Now look at me.
Trapped. Crushed. Broken.
And I swear—this might be the only thing I'm grateful for.
This accident saved me from marrying someone I couldn't stand.
It ripped everything away from me, but it also tore me out of that future.
So what does that say about me?
I'm grateful for the pain?
For the broken bones?
For the fact that I might've killed someone?
What the hell is wrong with me?
My head pounds.
I want it to stop.
I want everything to stop.
But it won't.
Not the pain. Not the ceiling. Not the thoughts.
Not the haunting hand.
Not the guilt.
Not the shame.
And definitely not the reminder that maybe I should've died too.
___________
The curtains around my bed aren't cheap. Not those dull, pale blue ones hospitals always seem to have. These are thick, off-white with a faint ivory pattern running across the fabric, like vines that keep curling in on themselves. Pretending to be elegant. Pretending to soften the prison I'm stuck in. But they don't. They fucking don't.
They block out everything but the ceiling and my own goddamn thoughts.
I don't know how many days it's been.
Or if it's even been days.
Could be hours.
Could be eternity.
All I know is pain.
Raw, dull, splitting, stabbing—rotating like someone's got it on a wheel, trying every flavor of hell and stabbing it into every part of my body. Even blinking hurts. Even breathing feels like I'm pulling razors into my chest.
And I can't move.
Not even a goddamn finger. My throat won't work, and my body—my body's something I watch from the inside now. Like I'm a fucking ghost haunting it from under the skin.
I hear footsteps.
Hurried. Not the cold ones like the nurses—these sound different. Panicked. Real.
Then a voice.
"The ICU allows five minutes for visitors. Please hurry."
Someone slides the curtain back.
And my world tilts.
It's them.
My family.
My mother. Her eyes are already glassy, her hand flying to her mouth like she's trying to keep her scream in. She doesn't move at first. Neither does my father. He's frozen, both hands clenched into fists, like if he opens his mouth, he might break something inside him.
Alan is here.
My fucking brother who was supposed to be in the goddamn U.S.
He's here. Standing right there. With the same dark circles under his eyes that I used to tease him about, only now they look like they've been carved with grief.
And then—
Ahil.
My baby brother. sobbing so loud the nurse flinches.
He pushes past everyone and grips the edge of the bed, his small fingers trembling.
"Wake up…" he chokes out. "You have to wake up… please, please…"
I want to say something.
God, I want to reach out, hug him, tell him I'm here.
But nothing moves.
Only my eyes.
Just my damn pupils dragging from face to face, locking on their pain.
Mom rushes to the side of the bed, finally breaking out of that shocked stillness. She brushes my forehead like she's afraid she'll hurt me. Like I'm glass already shattered and barely glued together.
"My baby... do you hear me?" Her voice cracks with every word, like it's falling apart inside her before she even speaks. "You have to fight, okay? Just a little more… you're strong… you're stronger than this, always have been."
Dad's hand touches her shoulder, firm but trembling. He doesn't cry, but I see his jaw clench so tightly I think it might snap.
Alan speaks low. "We're here. We're not going anywhere."
Ahil won't stop crying.
The kind of crying that breaks something in you when you hear it.
The kind that tells you someone that small shouldn't know this kind of fear.
I hate this.
I hate seeing them like this.
I hate that I did this.
I hate that I'm the reason they're breaking right in front of me.
And then—
"Time's up," the nurse says softly.
She's already stepping forward, giving the signal like some clock has run out on love.
"No—no, just a minute—" my mother begs, but the nurse gently tugs her hand away.
My family stands, one by one, pulled back by time and rules and walls. Alan whispers something in my ear before he leaves, but it's a blur. My mind can't hold it. I only feel the warmth of his breath.
Ahil is the last one to let go of my hand.
He kisses my fingers.
"I'll wait, okay?" he whispers. "I'll wait for you."
And then they're gone.
The curtain slides closed.
The ceiling returns.
The pain stays.
And the silence swallows me whole.
______________
The curtains haven't changed. Still pale beige, thick, dull, not the kind you'd find in homes or cheap clinics. These were hospital-grade. Sterile. Impersonal. Designed to mute the world. Designed to cage you in.
I'm still here.
But now, I hear different shoes. Not the hurried rubber soles of nurses changing IVs or adjusting wires. These are heavier. Slower. More deliberate.
Then—voices. Low. Male. Confident. A woman's voice follows, calm but attentive.
The curtain slides open with that faint zip-hiss sound, and this time, it's not a nurse
It's him.
A man in a white coat, late thirties maybe, no nonsense on his face but a kind smile tucked in the corner of his lips. Short-cropped hair, clean-shaven, a pen still stuck in the left pocket of his coat. Two nurses stand behind him, one holding a clipboard, the other already gloved.
He steps closer, glancing at the monitor before he looks at me. "Hey," he says, his voice warm but professional. "How are we feeling now, hmm?"
His gaze searches my face—eyes, lids, the lines of my jaw.
"If you can hear me and you're feeling better… give me one blink."
I don't blink. Not because I'm being difficult. I just… don't feel better. I feel like a cracked vase glued back together too early.
He pauses for a second but doesn't look disappointed. Just gives a soft nod, murmuring, "Alright. That's okay. No rush."
The nurse with the clipboard scribbles something down.
"Vitals have been holding steady," the doctor continues, glancing toward the monitor to my left. "O₂ saturation's decent. Heart rhythm's clean. So we're going to go ahead and remove the ET tube, alright?"
I think my heart jumps a little.
"It'll be uncomfortable for a second," he says, looking right at me, like I'm human, not a chart. "But once we get that out, we'll switch you to a high-flow oxygen mask. It'll be easier on your throat. You might be able to try a few words once you're ready, but no pressure."
He glances to one of the nurses now. "Mira, I'll count you in. Have the suction ready, and clamp pressure on standby."
The nurse—Mira—nods and steps toward the head of the bed.
"On three," he says calmly. "One…"
I brace myself.
"Two…"
Oh fuck.
"Three."
He moves fast, practiced. His gloved hand reaches into my mouth and gently pulls, slow but sure. The feeling is awful—like dragging glass through my throat—but not as bad as I thought. It's fast. A nurse suctions the excess as soon as it's out, working seamlessly.
Then the other nurse, without missing a beat, fits the oxygen mask snug over my mouth and nose.
Cool, dry air rushes in.
My lungs seize once, then finally expand. I cough. It's ugly and weak, but it's mine.
The doctor adjusts a few settings on the wall panel while the nurse checks the mask's fit and straps.
"You're doing great," he says, glancing at me again. "Don't talk yet. Let your throat adjust. We'll take it slow, alright?"
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to ask where the fuck I am and what day it is.
But all I can do is breathe.
And right now, that has to be enough.
Time drags in this fucking room.
Each second hangs in the air like it's soaked in molasses, like even time doesn't want to be here with me. The curtains aren't those cheap, faded blues you see in overused clinics—they're thick, pale gray, sterile, like they were designed to suffocate hope. They trap everything in. Cold. Silence. Guilt. Even the goddamn air.
The AC is too much, freezing my skin while the inside of me still burns. My limbs ache in places I didn't know had names. My ribs throb every time I try to breathe too deep, and my spine feels like someone ran a car over it and reversed twice just to be sure.
The oxygen mask is better than the fucking tube they shoved down my throat. At least now I don't feel like I'm choking on a PVC pipe. But speaking? That's a punishment of its own. My voice feels like shattered glass. Every syllable is a knife. The nurse always leans in whenever I try and croak out a word, shakes her head with that too-sweet smile and says, "Don't strain yourself, love. Just rest."
Rest.
As if resting erases what I did.
As if closing my eyes doesn't mean seeing it all over again.
The doctor walks in, flipping through something on his tablet. His steps are light, too practiced, too casual for someone standing next to a wreck like me. His coat is crisp, ID tag swinging as he stops at the monitor beside my bed. Beep. Beep. Beep. That rhythm. Like a countdown. Like guilt has a fucking heartbeat now and the monitor is keeping track of it.
He glances at the screen, then at me, then the screen again. I gather enough strength to force out something. Just something. It's barely more than a breath:
"There... was… someone else… too…"
It scrapes out of my throat like rusted metal. My chest caves at every pause, lungs refusing to help.
"Did he… survive…?"
The room goes still. The beeping continues, dumb and oblivious. But he doesn't answer right away. Just stares at me for a beat too long.
Then, the doctor clears his throat and forces a soft smile. "You have to rest now," he says. "That's the only thing you should focus on, okay?"
And then he's gone.
Just like that.
No yes.
No no.
Nothing.
That silence?
It says everything.
He didn't survive.
The words don't come, but the truth crashes into me anyway.
I killed him.
I killed someone.
He had a fucking life. A whole fucking life. He had people—family, friends. Maybe a lover who waited for his texts and still hasn't gotten one. Maybe a mother who still believes in miracles. Maybe a sibling who looked up to him. I don't know. I'll never know. I don't even remember his fucking face.
But I killed him.
My recklessness, my arrogance, my goddamn existence... it ended everything for someone else.
The pain in my chest now? It has nothing to do with broken ribs or surgeries or tubes. This—this is something else. Like my own soul is rejecting me. Like guilt is setting my blood on fire from the inside.
I'm lying in a hospital bed breathing air someone else should've been breathing.
And every second I stay alive, I'm stealing more from him.
I don't need a prison sentence.
This is worse.
This is a lifetime with myself.
It starts with warmth.
A strange, betraying warmth sliding down the side of my face. Wet. Slow. Like the room itself is crying with me.
But it's not the room.
It's just me.
My fucking tears, leaking out sideways, slipping down toward my ears where the pillow drinks them up like they're nothing. Like I'm nothing.
The only part of me moving is my eyes.
And that makes it worse.
I can't move my lips, can't lift my hand, can't scream or sob or even curl into the shame threatening to split me open from the inside. I just lie there. Eyes twitching in a body that feels borrowed and broken. Like I've been stitched into someone else's life.
Like I shouldn't be here.
And fuck, maybe I shouldn't.
Because I killed someone.
I killed someone.
The machines know it before I do.
They start beeping—sharp, insistent, panicked.
Like they're screaming on my behalf.
Like even the machines can't handle the fucking weight sitting on my chest.
A nurse rushes in first, then another.
They're talking over each other, trying to reach the monitor.
I can barely see their faces through the tears and oxygen mask. My body is shivering without permission. My fingers twitch uselessly. The air feels thick. Wrong.
Too much.
"Her heart rate's spiking—"
"Push the bed flat, keep her neck aligned—"
"Get Dr. Louise, now!"
And then—
A taller man storms in, sleeves rolled, white coat flaring behind him like a warning.
Dr. Louise.The same damn doctor.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't panic.
Just steps beside me, voice clipped and firm. "What happened?"
"She woke up agitated, sir. Heart rate 160 and rising, BP unstable."
"No sedatives," he says instantly. "Her system's not ready. We stabilize manually."
His hand finds mine. Not for comfort. For control.
I try to speak again—choking through the goddamn mask—but it hurts. My throat feels like it's been scraped raw with sandpaper and stitched up with regret.
Still… I force it out.
"Did… I… kill him?"
He freezes.
Just for a second.
The nurses glance at him.
He clears his throat, voice tightening as he says, "Everyone out. Please."
They hesitate.
"Doctor—"
"I said out," he repeats. "I've got it."
And they obey.
Just like that.
The room's quieter now.
The only sounds are the monitor screaming and the dull hum of my own guilt.
He exhales, then pulls the chair closer and sinks into it slowly.
He looks at me for a long time.
Not the way people look at patients.
The way people look at wreckage.
"You didn't kill anyone," he says calmly.
I shake my head.
Tears pour harder. "You're lying."
He doesn't react. No offense, no denial. Just folds his hands and leans forward.
"I don't lie to my patients. Especially ones barely alive."
His tone is firm, professional. But not cold.
"You were in a road accident," he continues. "A serious one. We weren't sure you'd make it. . When you arrived, your oxygen saturation was below 70. You had multiple fractures. Internal bleeding. And no one—"
His jaw tightens. "No one thought you'd survive the night."
I don't care. I don't fucking care.
I just want to know—
"What about… him?"
He nods slowly. "The man who crashed into you… yes."
He sits back.
"The impact was almost fatal. But from CCTV and damage pattern, it's clear—he saw you crossing, and instead of hitting directly, he deliberately skidded his bike sideways to reduce the impact. Took the brunt himself. You were hit, yes. But if he hadn't reacted, both of you would've died on the spot."
I stop breathing.
He saw me.
He saw me.
He chose to crash himself to save me.
Me. A stranger.
"You're lying."
It barely comes out, muffled and hoarse.
"I'm not," he says softly, but his tone sharpens—like he wants to cut through my disbelief before it kills me. "When they brought you in, he had no pulse. We tried. For several minutes. Nothing. We were about to declare time of death."
No.
No, no, no—
My body convulses, heartbeat screeching again.
Dr. Louise lifts a hand, commanding, but still calm. "Listen to me. After two minutes—his heart kicked back in. Weak, irregular. But it came back. He's been in a coma ever since. One month. Two days."
Silence swallows the room.
And then he does something unexpected.
He stands. Walks over to the left side of my bed.
And slides the curtain open.
At first, I don't understand what I'm looking at.
It's just wires.
Machines.
Another hospital bed.
Then my eyes land on the figure lying there.
Still.
So, so still.
Oxygen mask across his face.
Bandages. IVs. Head propped slightly.
There's no movement. No twitch.
His chest rises slowly under the sheet, but that's it.
No identity. No name.
Just a human body lying between life and death.
And he did it for me.
He chose to do it.
For someone he didn't even fucking know.
Dr. Louise closes the curtain again.
His face looks older now. Like he's aged just saying it all.
"You should rest," he says, voice lowering. "He's still fighting to come back. And you—"
His gaze hardens.
"You owe it to him to live. Not to spiral. Not to punish yourself. To live."
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
My chest is shaking.
Tears won't stop.
My throat is burning with all the words I can't say.
He rests his hand briefly on my forehead. Not gently. Not harshly. Just there.
A reminder.
"I'll send the nurse back in twenty minutes. Try to sleep. You're safe now."
He walks out.
The door clicks shut behind him.
And then there's just me again.
And the stranger behind the curtain.
I stare at the ceiling.
Everything is still.
My mind plays the same thought over and over again—
I should've been the one.
I should've been the one broken, wired up, unconscious.
Not him.
Not someone with a mother waiting. A friend hoping. A fucking future.
But instead, I'm here.
Alive.
Saved.
Because of him.
My eyes find the curtain again.
I don't even know his name.
But his pain—his suffering—is stitched into every inch of my survival.
And suddenly, it's not just guilt anymore.
It's something deeper. Darker.
A fucking storm that won't stop swelling inside my ribs.
He's been in a coma for thirty-two days.
Fighting while I slept.
Bleeding while I healed.
Dying while I lived.
And now I owe him everything.
Not just breath.
Not just a second chance.
I owe him me.
Not the broken version lying here.
Not the reckless idiot who didn't look before stepping into the street.
But the version of me who does something with this life.
Because if he wakes up—God—if he ever fucking wakes up, I need to be someone worth saving.
And if he doesn't…
If he never opens his eyes again…
Then I swear I'll never forgive myself.
Not even once.
----------------------------------------------------------
AUTHOR NOTE
I don't know how to explain what it feels like to survive something that should've killed you.
But this chapter tried.
She woke up with pain in her bones, guilt in her lungs, and a stranger's life stitched into her ribs.
He's still in a coma.
She doesn't even know his name.
But if he dies—
She'll never breathe the same way again.
If this chapter wrecked you, if you cried, if you held your breath at the end—
You're not alone.
💬 Drop your thoughts.
📌 Bookmark if you're staying for the next chapter.
👀 Because when he wakes up…
Everything changes.