I always look left. Always.
Even when my body is stiff and still, even when I can't move a damn finger, I keep trying. My gaze lingers on that pale curtain beside me like it's some kind of sacred thing. That's the side where they brought him in. The man from the accident. The one I haven't seen. The one they won't let me see. I don't even know his name.
The machines keep him company. Cold, steady beeps. One of them tracks his heartbeat—a rhythmic sound, distant but constant. At first, it scared the hell out of me. Now, it's the only proof I have that he's still there. Alive. Fighting.
I don't know what he looks like. I didn't even see him the day they slid the curtain open to examine him—my eyes weren't working right, heavy with meds and sleep and whatever the hell trauma does to your body. But now that I'm awake more, I wait. I pray.
God, let him live.
It sounds stupid. I don't know him. But there's something... something that holds me to that heartbeat. I wake up with it. I fall asleep to it. Sometimes, in that strange half-sleep, I imagine he's looking back at me too, just on the other side of the curtain.
And every day, I wish I could slide that fabric aside. Just once. Just see his face. Just say sorry—however many times he wants. I don't even know if he remembers what happened. Or if he ever will. But I broke him. I broke him without even touching him.
Today, the room is quieter than usual.
The nurses have already done their rounds. No one's come in for a while. The hallway light seeps under the door in a narrow golden blade. My chest feels heavy. I can't sit up, but I'm not drowsy either—my mind is sharp, alert in a way that makes everything louder. My own breath. The low hum of machines. And his beeping monitor, soft and steady.
Then—footsteps.
I know the difference now. Nurses wear soft-soled shoes. Light, quick. These are heavier. Slower. A pair of them. Maybe more.
Then I hear it: a choked sound. A woman. Not young. Not hysterical either—just... breaking. A slow, muffled sob. Controlled. Noble.
And then a man's voice, low and careful, murmuring something I can't quite catch. Probably her husband. Probably his father.
I don't move. I barely breathe.
The curtain doesn't shift, but the presence on the other side fills the room, like they're not just standing around him—they're wrapped around him. Air changes when parents are near their child. Especially when they're broken.
"Dr. Louise," the man says. A new voice. Calm. Crisp. Confident. Someone used to delivering hard truths. "I understand. But... he's been unconscious for over a month. Is there any sign of improvement?"
"Yes, I understand your concern," the doctor replies, his tone composed, measured. "And you're correct—it's been thirty-seven days, to be precise. But allow me to explain something... remarkable."
I don't blink. I barely register my heartbeat.
"When your son was brought in," Dr. Louise says, "he had no pulse. Paramedics began resuscitation in the ambulance. We continued here. There was no response. We were close to declaring time of death—his vitals were flatlining."
The woman—his mother—sobs again, but it's muffled, as if she's holding her hands over her mouth.
"Then," the doctor continues, "two minutes later, his heart began beating again. Spontaneously. Not assisted. Weak, yes—but functional. It's rare. Frankly, we were all stunned. It was a complete turnaround."
The father speaks. "So he chose to return. Even when his body was giving up."
"Exactly," the doctor says. "From a clinical standpoint, that moment was critical. And every hour since then has confirmed it—your son is not surrendering. His injuries are extensive: fractured ribs, shoulder displacement, spinal inflammation, severe concussion, damage to the left temporal lobe, and a compound fracture in the right leg. But despite all of it, he continues to stabilize."
There's a silence. But it's not empty. It's full—so full it presses on my chest.
"He's healing faster than we anticipated," the doctor adds. "And not just physically. The neural activity we're tracking suggests increasing responsiveness. He's in a comatose state, yes, but it's not stagnant. It's evolving. Shifting. And I'm not going to sugarcoat this—his body is still in a vulnerable condition. But the pace at which he is improving is—frankly—exceptional."
"Is it... conscious?" his mother asks. Her voice is soft, layered with sorrow but touched by something else: hope. "The way he's holding on, is it... is it a choice?"
"I can't answer that definitively," Dr. Louise says, gently. "But if I had to speculate—yes. Some individuals exhibit a kind of internal resistance. They refuse to give up. And in his case... something is anchoring him here. I don't know what it is, but it's powerful."
A pause.
Then the father says, low and steady, "He's always been like that. Stubborn. Quiet about it, but relentless. If he set his mind to something, no force on Earth could shift it."
"I'm not surprised," Dr. Louise says. "It fits. Even unconscious, his vitals reflect resilience. He is still in deep coma, but... it feels like he's preparing to return. Bit by bit."
Another silence. Then a sound I've never heard before—a woman weeping without shame. And her words—
"My poor baby."
She says it with her whole soul. Not in a dramatic way. Not loud or wailing. But like someone watching a storm crush the windows and still setting the table for dinner. It shatters me.
And then, his father again—solid, composed, like marble warmed in sunlight. "I told you. He's not done yet. He said he would return stronger. And he will. Our son has always been a man of his word."
He's not that much older i think, but there's steel in his voice. Not anger—dignity. Faith. The kind that doesn't need fireworks or shouting. Just certainty.
The doctor speaks again, this time with finality. "I'll be continuing observation for the next forty-eight hours with increased frequency. But I must ask you both to let him rest now. The body heals best in silence."
A rustle of fabric. A chair moved back. Footsteps again. Softer. Leaving.
The door opens, then shuts.
And I'm left there, blinking at the ceiling, tears sliding into my hairline.
I can't stop crying.
I don't even know who he is. I never saw his face. I only remember headlights, a horn, the horrible crunch of metal and flesh. Then darkness.
But now, every word echoes through me like a second heartbeat.
He died. He died. And came back.
He didn't have to. No one would've blamed him if he let go. But he didn't.
He's fighting.
He's fighting.
I can't explain the ache in my chest. It's too big. It's too complicated. It's not just guilt. It's not just sorrow. It's something more raw, something that has no name. I want to reach for him. I want to whisper to the curtain please don't give up. But I can't even move my lips.
So I cry. Quietly.
And I pray harder.
Please, whoever you are—don't leave.
---
It's the quiet that tells me it's afternoon.
I don't have a clock. There's no sunbeam crawling across the wall, no shadows stretching across the floor. But I can feel it—in the way the nurses change, in the softness of their new voices, in the clean scent of fresh sheets and distant coffee. The afternoon shift is always warmer somehow. Less rushed. Like the world outside is breathing a little slower.
The nurse who walks in today has a familiar rhythm to her steps. I don't remember her name—maybe I never heard it—but I remember the kindness in her hands. She checks the monitor beside my bed, her touch brisk but gentle.
"You're recovering fast," she says, eyes on the screen, then down at me. "If things stay like this, we might move you to a room by the end of the week."
I smile through the oxygen mask. It's a small stretch of muscle, but it feels like climbing a mountain. She notices. Her smile in return is warm, like something sunlit.
Then, she turns to the other side.
His side.
I watch her slide open the left-side curtain, and my chest pulls tight, the way it always does when someone goes over there. She disappears behind it. A week of wondering, and I still haven't seen him. The curtain is always drawn too quickly. Or I'm too tired. Or the pain is too loud.
But this time—this time, the curtain doesn't close all the way.
Just a narrow gap. Barely a breath of space.
But it's enough.
I can see her back through it. She's leaning over him, checking his monitors. Adjusting his IV. Then she reaches forward, tugs the blanket up gently, and smooths it across his chest. Her body shifts a little—and she's covering his face.
I look away. Not by choice. My neck aches from holding it too long, a dull pressure climbing up behind my skull. My body's still healing, stitched together with medications and IV fluids and regret.
She finishes. Steps back. Leaves.
And the room breathes again.
But the curtain—she didn't close the curtain.
The gap is still there.
Open. Slight.
Like an invitation. Like fate misstepped and left the door ajar.
I turn my head again, slow, cautious, the ache flaring in my neck like fire.
And then—I see him.
Everything stops.
My breath halts, sharp and painful in my throat. The sound of the machines fades, dimming into a dull buzz behind my ears. My heart isn't beating right—it's stuttering, tripping over itself like it forgot how to function.
It's him.
Him.
The stranger from the street. The boy on the bike. The one I saw only once, over a year ago, through a crowd of cars and pouring rain.
The one I never forgot.
The one I couldn't forget.
I see his face now, bare beneath the soft white of a nasal cannula. No mask. No tubes hiding him. Just him.
The dark hair, slightly grown out, tousled and messy, but still with the same wild grace it had that day he took off his helmet. His lashes are long, casting shadows across his cheeks. His skin is paler now, tinged with the stillness of sleep, but still beautiful—too beautiful to belong in a hospital bed like this. His mouth rests in a soft line, not tight with pain, just quiet.
Peaceful.
Wrongly peaceful.
It's him.
The man who shattered my lungs with a single look, a single glance through traffic.
The man I never saw again.
Until now.
He's been here the whole time.
Beside me.
All this time.
I want to scream. I want to sob. I want to rip the damn curtain open and beg someone to tell me how the fuck this happened. But I can't. I can't move. I can't even breathe properly.
Because he's here.
Because I'm the reason he's here.
My eyes blur. Tears well up so fast I don't even feel them build—they just spill, hot and sharp down my cheeks. My chest heaves, struggling around the oxygen, and still it's not enough air. Nothing is enough.
He's the one I always wanted to see again. The one I'd sometimes search for in crowds, stupid and silent, hoping some twist of the world would bring him back into my path. And now—
Now he's been by my side for weeks.
Unconscious. Broken.
Because of me.
My fault.
I didn't look.
I didn't fucking look.
I crossed the street like a ghost. Like I didn't care what happened. Like I wanted to disappear. My head was somewhere else—buzzing with dread over a future I didn't want, an engagement I never asked for, a life I didn't choose. I stepped into that road like it was mine.
And then—
The sound of tires skidding.
Metal screaming.
Someone shouting.
His bike came out of nowhere. Not speeding. Not reckless. Just there. Too fast for either of us to change anything.
And I remember—
Not the hit.
Not the blood.
Not the pain.
But the hand.
And now he's here.
Hooked to machines.
His chest rising and falling with borrowed air.
And I'm the reason.
I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood. But it doesn't stop the tears. They just come harder. Slipping past my chin, into the pillow, soaking the collar of my gown.
Why him?
Why him, out of all people?
This world has billions. Eight fucking billion people. And it picked him—the one stranger who ever made my heart stop in a single look—the one I wanted to find again and never could. And it made me the reason he's like this.
Crushed.
Silenced.
Erased.
I can't stop looking at him. Even when it hurts. Even when my whole body is screaming at me to look away.
His beauty isn't gentle. It never was. Not the first time. And definitely not now.
Even asleep, even broken, he carries that same impossible presence—like the world tilts slightly toward him, like even stillness bows to him. There's something haunting about it. Something unfair.
I always imagined finding him again. Dreamed it. What I'd say. What I'd do. Whether he'd remember the look we shared, that half-second across a sea of engines and rain. Whether I could make him look again—really look.
But not like this.
Never like this.
Not through an ICU curtain. Not with plastic tubes feeding him air. Not with his arms still and bruised beneath hospital linens. Not like something that might vanish before I ever hear his voice.
He doesn't even know I'm here.
He's been beside me for a month.
And I've been praying for him.
Every night.
Without even knowing it was him.
That the heart I've been listening to—beating slow, steady, defiant in the dark—that was his.
That the man the doctors praised for surviving the impossible—that was him.
That the ghost I carry from the accident—the one I see every time I close my eyes—isn't a stranger at all.
He's this man.
The man I once watched disappear down the street like he belonged to another world.
And now I'm the reason he can't wake up in this one.
I close my eyes, hard.
But the tears don't stop.
They leak out anyway.
Soft. Steady. Like grief too deep for sobbing.
I want to say sorry. I want to scream it. Cry it. Let it pour from me until I'm nothing but the word itself. But I can't speak. My mouth is full of silence and pain and things I'll never be able to take back.
And he's still sleeping.
Still silent.
Still here.
I don't know if he'll ever wake up.
I don't know if I'll ever be able to say a word to him. Ever explain. Ever ask if he remembers me.
But I know now.
It's him.
And no matter what happens next, I will never forget this moment.
This terrible, beautiful, broken moment—
When the curtain slipped open.
And the universe told me exactly who I had destroyed.
________
I talk to him.
Every night. Every morning.
I talk like I'm not the reason he's here.
Like I didn't fuck up his life by existing.
I whisper, "Please don't die," like it's a prayer God might take seriously.
Even when I know—know—that if he wakes up, he'll never forgive me.
But I talk anyway. I sob and mumble and promise things I can't undo. I apologize out loud, shameless and raw, even though I know all the ICU staff probably hears me and pities the delusional girl begging a half-dead boy behind the curtain.
But I don't care.
Because I want him to hear me.
Even if he never looks at me again.
Even if he hates me forever.
"I'm sorry," I whisper now. My voice rasps. It's too fragile, like it'll crack in half any second.
I wipe my face, but the tears don't stop.
"I didn't mean to… I didn't know it would end like this. You're not supposed to be here. I am."
The nurse enters.
The same one as yesterday. Her steps are soft. Careful. Familiar now.
She checks my vitals, glancing at the screen without saying much. Then she pauses—like always—and turns.
And for the first time…
She doesn't pull the curtain shut again.
She walks to his side.
But the curtain stays open.
Not wide. Just enough.
Enough for me to see him again.
Enough for me to destroy myself one more time.
His face is clearer today. A little more color on his skin. His jaw clenched instead of slack. Still hooked to the nasal cannula, still wires everywhere. But his presence… it's different today. Not lifeless. Not silent.
My breath catches.
She doesn't look back at me. Maybe on purpose. Maybe because she knows.
They all know.
They hear me whispering to him at night.
Begging. Crying.
They know I've been waiting for that curtain to open.
Maybe they're tired of pretending I'm invisible too.
My eyes blur again. I turn to him, whispering, "Please wake up… please don't go… I know it's my fault. I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it, I didn't know this would happen. I would trade places if I could. I'd disappear from your life forever if it would bring you back. I swear. I'd never even look at you. Not even by accident. Just wake up, please…"
My chest starts to heave. The sob rips through my throat like it's been hiding under my skin all day, clawing out now that I see his face again.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… please, God… please…"
And then—
His eyes open.
No flicker. No flutter.
No slow awakening like the movies.
Just—bam.
His eyes open—and go straight to mine.
Like they were never closed.
Like he knew exactly where I was.
Exactly what I was doing.
Exactly who I am.
My lips part.
My body freezes.
He's looking at me.
Directly.
Not confused.
Not searching.
Just seeing. Me.
His gaze slams into mine like a car crash—silent, merciless, and so personal it knocks the air from my lungs.
My heart stutters.
The world stops.
He sees me.
Alive. Conscious. Aware.
I forget how to breathe.
I forget how to exist.
Tears stick to my chin, but I don't feel them anymore. My body's locked, as if a thousand invisible chains pulled every muscle tight. My lungs scream for air, but I can't move, can't blink, can't do anything except stare at him like I just saw a ghost.
But it's not a ghost.
It's him.
Then—
He looks away.
Just like that.
No words.
No blink.
No twitch of his brow.
He turns his face… like I'm nothing.
Like I'm dust. Like I didn't spend every second praying for this moment.
I choke.
The silence becomes unbearable. The space between us feels too sharp. My skin burns.
Then I hear it—
A voice near the curtain, casual, not even directed at me.
"He woke up yesterday morning. He's fine now. Stable."
It's the nurse. She's speaking to someone at the door. Softly. Offhandedly.
I blink.
Yesterday.
He woke up… yesterday.
My breath halts in my throat.
He heard.
Every word.
Every cry.
Every broken, humiliating apology.
He heard me begging.
He heard me wanting him to live.
He heard it all.
And now—now he won't even look at me.
I feel the shame rise in my throat like acid.
The sob that claws out of me isn't from sadness.
It's from knowing that I broke him—and he fucking knows.
He doesn't speak.
He doesn't have to.
His silence screams louder than anything.
It says, You're the reason I was in the dark.
You're the one who left me like that.
And I'll never forgive you.
I close my eyes. It hurts. So much.
And the worst part is—I'd do it all again just to see him alive.
Even if he never looks at me again.
Even if I become the monster in his nightmares.
Even if he hates me until his last breath.
He's awake.
He's alive.
He sees me.
And he hates me.
That's enough.
That has to be enough.
______________________
AUTHOR NOTE
If this chapter made your heart ache even a little… if you felt the pain, the silence, or the weight of that one look—
Please don't forget to vote, comment, and share.
Your support keeps this story alive. Every comment, every vote—it means more than you know.
Tell me what broke you. Tell me what stayed with you. I'm reading everything. I'm feeling everything with you.
Let's keep this story growing. Let's make the world feel this heartbreak together.
Thank you for reading. Always. 🤍