Yesterday, the doctor said I didn't have to stay in the ICU anymore. "You're healing," he told me, soft voice, the kind people use when they think you're too breakable for truth. "You'll be shifted to a room today. We'll sedate you during the transfer—it's for your own comfort."
I said nothing. Just stared at the ceiling above me, white and dull like a blank page I never got to write on. My throat burned, my limbs numb. The only thing I wanted to do was reach for the curtain on my left. Slide it open. See him. Just… see him. But I never could.
Not once.
Since the day he opened his eyes and looked straight at me—that brutal, cold second that still slashes through my chest—he never opened the curtain again. Not even a little. Nurses would pass to his side from the front, their bodies blocking my view. Sometimes I'd hear the soft hush of fabric moving, the click of machines. I'd hear them talk to him, adjust his wires, check his monitor. But never from my side.
Never where I could see.
I used to listen for his breathing, if he made any sound beyond that mechanical beep. I prayed silently—every damn time I opened my eyes—that God wouldn't take him. That He'd save him. Even if I never deserved to be forgiven for what I caused. Even if I was the reason he ended up there, wires hooked into his veins, a fucking nose tube in his face. My throat closed up when I thought about that.
I didn't even lay a finger on him, and still—I broke him.
And now… I don't even get to see him again before they move me.
I tried to stay awake. I really tried. But the sedation hit fast, and my body gave in before I could stop it.
---
When my eyes open again, it's to a ceiling I don't recognize.
It's not white. It's not boring. It's not medical.
It's glossy. Cream-colored. Carved edges. A fucking chandelier.
I blink.
The light isn't blinding, it's soft—like it was designed to make people look prettier. Expensive. Warm gold glow with a hint of ivory. There's no antiseptic sting in the air. No beep. No metallic clangs. Just a weird calm silence and the faintest whisper of air-conditioning.
My arms—oh god—I can move my arms.
I lift them, slow, unsteady, like they're still trying to remember what being mine feels like. My fingertips graze thick fabric on both sides. Curtains. Heavy, warm-toned, ridiculously soft. I slide the one on my right.
And then I freeze.
What the fuck?
This is not a hospital room.
The curtain pulls back to reveal one side of the room and I swear—I've either died or someone in this damn building made a colossal mistake.
There's a plush beige couch in the corner, wide enough to sleep on. A low table with books stacked neatly. A massive flat-screen TV, silent but glowing with some kind of digital fireplace screen. A corner plant stands next to the glass wall, light filtering through it like it's posing for a luxury magazine shoot. Everything is too elegant. Too smooth. Too perfect. Even the tiles on the floor gleam like they were polished by angels.
What the actual fuck?
This… this is a hotel. This is a suite. This is some VVIP billionaire-level five-star bullshit.
I stare, blink hard. No, this is still the hospital. I'm still healing. I'm not insane.
So why the hell am I here?
They must've made a mistake. That's the only possible reason. Someone probably mixed up the patients during transfer. Any second now, a nurse will barge in, all red-faced, apologizing with the usual fake-smile professionalism. "So sorry for the inconvenience, ma'am. We'll shift you to your assigned room now."
Yeah. That's what's going to happen.
Because this… this sure as fuck isn't for me.
My family can't afford this. Not in this lifetime. Not even if we sold every organ we had twice.
I try to sit up—can't. The muscles in my stomach tremble with the effort. I lie back down, defeated, staring at the ridiculous chandelier again.
What the hell is happening?
For a second, a stupid thought hits me—what if he's here too?
No. No, don't be dumb. Why would he be here?
He wouldn't want to be anywhere near me. Not after everything. That look in his eyes last time—when they slid the curtain back and he saw me hooked up like a ghost—he didn't even frown. Didn't blink. He just looked away, like he couldn't bear the sight of me.
Not a single word.
Not even hate.
Just… silence. Indifference.
That hurt more than any insult he could've thrown at me.
I blink fast, rub my eyes. I won't cry. Not in this silk-draped, gold-glowing insult of a room. I deserve the rusted corners of a regular hospital bed, the bleach-stained sheets. Not this royal suite where I don't belong.
I turn my head slightly, painfully, toward the left curtain.
It's still closed. Still thick. Still quiet.
My throat knots.
No nurse has come yet. No doctor either. They just… put me here. Left me like this. Trapped between luxury and guilt. Surrounded by curtains I'm too weak to pull.
I don't know what's behind the one on the left.
And I'm terrified to find out.
But if he were here… if he were behind that curtain…
No. Don't go there.
He wouldn't want to see me again. Even thinking about him hating me from behind a wall of silence makes something sharp twist in my chest. Not once did we speak. Not once did we even breathe the same words. But the way he refused to look at me…
That was enough.
Still, I can't stop myself from looking toward the curtain again. Wishing.
Wishing he was here.
Wishing he didn't hate me.
Wishing I hadn't broken something I never even had the right to touch.
I blink, once, twice, like that'll fix the haze in my head. My chest is tight, not in the scary way anymore, just… too full. Too much air, too much emotion, too much everything.
I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore.
What kind of fucked up cosmic joke is this?
The front curtain of my bed pulls open without a sound, just a swish, and I flinch like I've been caught doing something illegal. A nurse steps in — not the one from yesterday, someone different — younger, maybe new. She smiles.
And I?
I smile back.
That's the only fucking thing I can offer her. A polite curve of the lips that feels like I've stapled it there with blood and guilt. My mouth tastes like metal.
She walks in like this is routine, checks the machines like they aren't betraying every damn beat of my heart, then leans a little to check the numbers beside my head.
I swallow. "Did you guys… make a mistake?"
She pauses, looking at me. "What do you mean?"
"Why am I here?" My voice is dry and thin, barely scraping the air. "Why… why am I here in this room? I—I don't understand."
She tilts her head, a soft reassuring smile still painted perfectly on her face like she's been trained to wear it through fire. "You don't have to worry about anything right now, okay? You're doing amazing. Focus on healing."
I squint at her, the pounding in my head growing louder, heavier, like it's echoing off the inside of my skull.
My throat stings. "Why the curtains are surrounded like this? I've never been in a room like this. It's… not normal, right?"
Her fingers still. She looks up, caught.
Then she breathes out a tiny little "Aaah…" like it just clicked in her head. "That's because the patient on your left is still healing. It's for his health. We try to reduce exposure, sound, even light. It helps recovery, especially for his condition."
I go still.
"He?"
She nods slowly, like that word isn't chewing through my nerves. "Yes, the young man beside you. You haven't seen him?"
My fingers dig into the sheet as I breathe in once, twice, trying to keep the monitor from screaming again. But it's already reacting.
She doesn't wait for my response.
Instead, she steps back toward the left, gently grabs the edge of the curtain, and slides it open.
And there he is.
Lying on the bed, tubes still tangled near his skin, but the damn light from the ceiling decides to hit him like a fucking blessing. My brain short circuits. My heart doesn't beat — it slams.
The machine beside me loses its shit.
Fast, erratic, shrill. Like it knows.
Like it wants to scream He's here.
He's real.
He's not in your head.
The nurse notices the chaos in the monitor and places a hand on my arm. "Breathe," she says softly, almost laughing, but still concerned. "You're fine. It's okay. Just breathe."
I try to smile. Instead, my lips twitch into something awkward and desperate and barely alive. I give him that awkward little smile, the only thing I can do.
But he looks away.
Like I'm nothing.
Just air. Just a fly buzzing in the wrong damn place.
Like he didn't just watch me cry, confess, fall apart for weeks. Like he didn't look straight into my eyes a few seconds ago and rip the ground out from beneath me.
He looked away.
"You two," the nurse says, completely oblivious to the storm crashing through my chest, "you're under the same medical case. That's why you're in the same room."
Same. Medical. Case.
It sounds cold. Clinical. Like this isn't personal. Like this isn't punishment. Like we didn't collide and combust and leave a trail of destruction so deep that we both had to be yanked out of it with machines and surgeries and months of goddamn nothingness.
"Don't try to sit up, okay?" she says with a warm smile that burns this time. "You're still healing. Let your body rest. Don't push it, alright? It'll only take longer."
She gives me one last soft look, then disappears past the curtain again, her shoes making the softest sound against the floor.
I'm alone again.
Except I'm not.
He's here. Right fucking there.
My breath catches. The air doesn't sit right in my lungs — it's too thick, too sweet, too heavy with the scent of antiseptic and him. I can feel his presence in the air like gravity.
I stare at the ceiling.
Then at the monitor.
Then at him.
He's not looking this time. He's still turned away. His profile is sharp against the light. His lashes are dark, fanning shadows on pale skin. His neck is covered with a thin white bandage. There's a tube taped beside his nose, and a drip in his wrist. He doesn't look real. He looks like a porcelain doll someone forgot to protect.
He doesn't look at me.
Of course he doesn't.
And yet—
God.
God, I'm so fucking happy to be in the same room as him. To breathe the same air. To know he's alive. That he didn't die. That he's here.
I should cry. I should sob into my pillow like a broken mess. But instead I just close my eyes and whisper, thank you thank you thank you, to the ceiling, to the fucking air vent, to whoever is listening.
It's perfect.
The room is perfect.
The temperature is so still. Not too cold. Not too warm. Like the moment has been frozen and preserved just for us. Like I'm not allowed to move, like if I do — even blink too hard — it'll all collapse.
I press my palm over my chest where my heart should be, and fuck, it's still racing. I whisper to myself, calm the fuck down, like that'll help.
But it doesn't.
Because all I can think about is that I wished for this. I thought what if he's here, behind that curtain, what if God actually listens, what if the universe decides to give me this one thing — and it did.
He's here.
Right here.
And I'm the fucking reason he's broken.
And even now, even after all that, I still can't stop being selfish — because I'm grateful we're in the same room.
Even if he won't look at me again.
Even if I deserve every ounce of his silence.
Even if I'll never be forgiven.
Because he's alive.
And that's the only miracle I ever wanted.
_________________
The curtain stays shut. Like always.
Every time I try to look at him—just a glance, just to see if he's okay—he fucking shuts it. Doesn't slam it, no. Just calmly pulls the curtain back like I'm some damn plague he's trying to keep out. And I don't blame him. I deserve it. But that doesn't stop it from hurting like hell.
It's been three days.
Three whole fucking days of silence between two people breathing the same air, sharing the same walls, the same nurses, the same fucking IV drip beeping rhythmically like a fucking countdown. And we haven't said a word.
Today, I can't take it anymore.
I shift on the bed, just enough to face his side, and raise my voice—not loud, just enough to maybe reach through the curtain. My voice cracks anyway.
"Are you hearing me?"
Nothing.
"You… you can't talk? Or you won't?"
Still nothing. Not even a breath, not even a goddamn twitch of the curtain.
My chest tightens—not from pain, not from any of the injuries—I'm healing. I'm fucking fine. But that silence? That kills. Because I know why he's not answering. Because if I were him, I wouldn't either.
"Okay," I mumble, leaning back. "Fine."
And I mean it. I fucking mean it.
He doesn't owe me a single fucking word.
I close my eyes and sigh, but a crooked smile pulls at the corner of my mouth. Pathetic. I'm still happy. Still ridiculously happy that he's here—alive, breathing, close.
I don't even recognize myself.
Normally, I'm sharp-mouthed, stone-hearted, hell-bent on making people squirm. But with him?
I whisper my movements so the bed won't creak. I don't curse out the nurse when she checks my vitals. I don't even rip out the IV anymore when I get pissed.
I'm gentle. Me. Fucking gentle.
Because it's him.
The man I obsessed for a year. The stranger I dreamed about like some obsessive freak. The one whose face I memorized before I ever heard his voice.
And now?
Now he's on the other side of that curtain—breathing because I destroyed him.
I look at the luxurious ceiling and try not to cry.
He just woke up two weeks ago. I've been conscious for a month. The accident was almost two months ago now, but time's got a different fucking rhythm in this room. Every second feels like a damn eternity.
I think about the way the nurse had smiled when she said, "You two are under one medical case."
Yeah, no shit. I'm the reason he's here. I'm the goddamn case.
He's still fragile. I saw the bruises, the bandages, the way his chest barely rose under the hospital blanket. And maybe he can't look at me without remembering the pain. I get it. I fucking get it.
But goddamn, I wish he'd just say something. Anything.
Even if it's to say he hates me.
____________________________
I apologize to him every day.
Not because I think it'll fix anything, not because I expect him to forgive me—but because I need to. Because my chest burns with this guilt I can't unclench, like something's sitting on it. Heavy. Ugly.
It's been five days now. Four days of waking up to the same ceiling, the same machines beeping quietly around us, the same curtain between our beds. Five days of me whispering broken words into the silence like they might stitch something back together. They don't.
"I'm sorry," I murmur, voice raw. "I know you have every right to shut me out. Be mad. Hate me, even. I'd hate me too if I were you. I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't… I didn't cause the accident on purpose. I wouldn't—"
No answer.
Not even a sigh. Not even the rustle of fabric from his side.
"I hurt too," I whisper, fingers curling in the stiff hospital blanket. "Maybe not like you. Maybe not as deep. But I do. Every time I see that curtain… every time I think about how I didn't even get to say sorry before they wheeled us in here... it kills me."
Silence.
The kind that feels cruel. Absolute.
I let my eyes close. My body's too sore to cry properly. There's a dull ache that never leaves. It's in my bones now. I'm not even sure if it's from the accident or from the fact that he won't even say one fucking word.
And then I hear it. A door. Soft click. Footsteps, fast, urgent. My eyes snap open. My heart jumps.
It's not my family—they were here yesterday, and the nurse said next visit's not till next week.
The curtain at the foot of my bed slashes open.
"ARSHILAAAAH!"
Three voices. Torn, cracked. Familiar.
And then they're on me.
Ifrah's sobbing. Ruby's mascara is running down her face like melted paint. Shaiza's hands are shaking as she grabs for mine, holding it like I'll disappear if she lets go.
I gasp at the weight of them crashing in. My ribs scream. "Ouch," I manage, teeth gritted. "It fucking hurts—"
"Oh my God, oh my God—" Shaiza starts crying harder, pulling back like she touched fire. Her face is blotchy and red, and she looks ten years older from worry. "You bitch! You absolute fucking bitch, you scared the shit out of us! It's been two goddamn months—we thought we were going to lose you!"
My throat closes.
Ifrah nods through her tears like she read my mind. Her glasses are crooked, fogged up with tears. "They didn't let us in," she says, voice rising. "They didn't fucking let us enter the ICU. Every damn day, we came. Every day! But the nurses just kept saying family only, family only, and that too only once! We begged. We cried. They didn't care. We thought—" her voice breaks, "we thought we'd never see you again."
Tears sting my eyes. Not because of pain. Not even from the confusion of missing time. Just them. Their faces. The rawness in them. Like they'd been living with ghosts.
"I'm sorry," I croak.
"Why the fuck are you sorry?" Ruby snaps, wiping her nose violently with her sleeve. "You were in a coma. What, you think you're supposed to text us from the afterlife?Does it hurts?"
I manage a cracked laugh, then wince at the sharp pain in my side. "Yes. It hurts. Like… fuck. Like my entire body is one big purple bruise."
They all start crying again. It's a mess. Wet tissues. Sniffles. Shaiza's ugly crying and Ruby's trying to act tough and failing.
And then I look at Ruby, my heart squeezing. I remember.
"It was your big day," I whisper. "Your dream opening. Your café. And I still… I made you sad."
Ruby stares at me like I'm insane. Her mouth opens, but it takes her a second to form the words.
"To me, you are bigger than my fucking dream," she says, voice trembling. "If I lost you, I lost everything. Do you get that? I don't give a shit about that day. Yes, it was my café's opening. Yes, it was the thing I planned for two years. But when I heard you were hurt, and they didn't let us see you… do you seriously think I cared about cupcakes and customers?"
She breaks down again. But through the tears, she reaches for the tissues, blows her nose like a war horn, and mutters, "But yeah, I do have customers now, so please don't fucking die. I need you to advertise."
I laugh. So do they. Just a breath of it, through tears. Broken but real.
Shaiza snorts. "You seriously promoted her café while she's in a hospital bed?"
"If she doesn't die, she better do something useful."
"I'll make a reel," I say hoarsely, grinning.
Ifrah is hiccuping through her tears. "With IV drip aesthetics?"
I smile, and it hurts, but I don't stop. "Tagline: 'Café Ruby. So good it might kill you.'"
Ruby throws a tissue at me. "Bitch!"
We all burst out laughing. Ugly, wet laughter through red eyes and crumpled tissues. It's loud and it echoes and it feels like a miracle in this sterile hell of a room.
I lean my head back, breath shaking, heart swelling with something warm and tight.
For the first time in days—maybe weeks—I feel alive.
They're here. They came. They didn't forget me. They didn't stop fighting for me.
I don't need to say anything more. They know. And as they sit on either side of my bed, arms brushing mine, voices dropping into softer tones, they start telling stories, updating me on everything I missed. Stupid things. Mundane things. But it all matters.
Their hands keep touching me, like they need to feel I'm real. And maybe I do too.
Somewhere between tears and jokes, between pain and warmth, we end up smiling through the ache. Not because it doesn't hurt anymore. But because in this moment, we're all still here.
And that's enough.
The room goes silent after all the crying stops. My cheeks are still wet, my voice dry like I'd chewed glass, and I can feel the weight of my friends' stares on me. I keep my eyes on the ceiling even though it blurs. I don't want to look left. I've done it a thousand times already. I've stared at that damn left side like it's my only window to redemption, but the silence behind that thick curtain hasn't broken once. Just that cold, steady beep of the heart monitor.
Shaiza wipes her face first, then her expression shifts—something sharper, something serious sliding into her eyes. "Okay, enough with the tears," she says, voice cracked but controlled.
Ifrah nods beside her, arms crossed, head tilted like she's prepping for a verbal attack. "We did see the CCTV footage, Arshila. Where the hell were your eyes when you stepped into that road, huh?"
I blink at her, stunned. That stings, but I don't fight back. I deserve that.
Shaiza jumps in before I can even open my mouth. "God, that crash…" She exhales hard, hand flying to her chest like she's reliving it. "It looked like both of you weren't gonna make it. I mean it. It was fucking brutal."
Ruby shifts on the edge of my bed, her brows pinched together. "We're not blaming you, okay? But still, if you'd just looked at the road… just one glance." She shakes her head slowly. "And the biker… that crash—God—it looked like he died on the spot. The bike was completely destroyed. I can't even explain how fucked it looked."
Shaiza clicks her tongue. "Maybe he did die. I mean, that speed? What was he trying to do, fly into the afterlife? Idiot."
Ruby huffs. "If he's not dead, I swear I'd slap him once for real. But still… I feel bad. That man… poor guy."
And all I can do is sit here, swallowing guilt so heavy it could shatter bone. Every word they're saying… he's hearing. Every single fucking word.
They don't know that.
But I do.
I clench the bedsheet, heart knocking against my ribs. My voice comes out small. "He's not dead."
Shaiza freezes. "What?"
I lift one finger, shaky and slow, and point toward the thick left curtain. "He's… there."
All three of them follow my hand. Shaiza frowns. "There? What do you mean there?"
She doesn't wait. She pushes Ifrah aside like she's weightless and marches straight to the edge of the curtain. That fucking thing—god, . Smooth fabric with embroidered edges and it slides so slowly like it's made of guilt.
Shaiza drags it back just halfway.
And stops.
She doesn't speak. Doesn't even blink.
She just… stares.
Like a damn statue.
Ifrah squints. "Why is she standing like that?"
Ruby moves first, craning her neck. "What the hell is wrong with her?"
Then both of them shuffle closer, lean in—
—and freeze.
Ifrah lets out a sound that's not quite a gasp, not quite a curse. "Holy… shit."
Shaiza jerks the curtain closed like it burned her fingers.
Then they all turn to me.
Mouths parted.
Eyes wide.
They don't scream. They whisper scream, which is worse.
Shaiza leans in, hissing, "What the fuck is he?"
Ifrah grips her own face like she's dizzy. "Is he real?! Like real-real? Did someone draw him and he walked out of the sketchbook?"
Ruby blinks like she's lost vision. "Did he come from heaven?"
Shaiza shakes her head fast. "No. No. That man is not from heaven. That face? That's got dangerous written on it. That's hell's favorite child."
I can't stop the sigh that leaves my chest. "Maybe both."
Ifrah groans. "His face… I've never—never seen a guy like that in real life. And his eyebrows?" She grips Ruby's hand. "I think he just judged me with them. I felt it. Like I should apologize for breathing."
Ruby nods slowly. "He wasn't even trying. That's the worst part. He was just looking."
Shaiza swallows. "Is he the biker?"
I nod.
She steps back like she saw a ghost. "Bitch, you almost killed him."
I whisper, "He's the one I've been obsessed with for a year. The man I kept talking about. The traffic guy…"
Shaiza stares at me, mouth falling open slowly.
Then she screams.
Not a real one. One of those choked, airless, full-body ones.
Ruby panics. "What?! What's happening?!"
Shaiza grabs her arm and drags her close, whispering fast into her ear.
Ruby's reaction is worse.
She makes a shrill dying seal sound, then slaps her own face. "No fucking way. That's him?!"
Ifrah just covers her mouth with both hands and says nothing, eyes jumping between me and the curtain like she's watching a horror movie and a love story at the same time.
Shaiza clutches her chest. "We literally made you go on a date to forget him. We said he wasn't even real. Oh my God. We were such bitches."
Ruby looks like she's about to cry. "I'm sorry, babe. I'm so sorry. And the whole time you were still in love with him? This man?! This goddamn illegal Greek myth?!"
I nod. "I told you. I told you he looked unreal."
They crowd around me, squeezing my shoulders, brushing my hair back, comforting me with soft touches and guilty looks.
Ifrah breathes out, "Do you know his name?"
I shake my head. "No. He… he hasn't said a word to me."
Shaiza frowns. "Since when?"
"Since the day they slid the curtain open. He looked at me… then shut it. And never opened it again. Not even once."
Silence settles again.
Ruby whispers, "So he doesn't know you're the reason he's here?"
"He does."
They go quiet.
Shaiza breathes in hard. "Then you need to get out of this hospital fast, babe. Heal up, find out who the hell he is. Before you lose the chance."
Ifrah nods. "Yeah. Before someone else sees that face and ruins your entire plan."
Ruby smirks. "I mean, if he breathes in public, girls will line up to get hit by his motorcycle."
They all laugh softly, but I can't.
I glance at the curtain.
________________
They leave. One by one, my girls walk backward like they don't trust turning their backs on whatever the hell they just witnessed. Ruby says she'll bring orange juice next time. Ifrah says she's going to memorize that man's face forever. Shaiza tells me to rest, though she's still muttering curses under her breath like she saw a demon in silk.
The door clicks softly behind them. Their chatter fades down the hallway, and suddenly, it's just me and him again.
Silence slaps harder than any goodbye.
It sinks into the room like fog, curling around the machines, the sterile air, and the emptiness pressing on my chest. I lie there, trying to pretend I'm not aching in every bone and bruised in places no X-ray can show. But the worst part is—I'm the only one speaking in this damn room. Always me.
Always the one looking.
Always the one waiting.
I shift my gaze to the ceiling. It's the kind that probably costs more than my father's entire life. Ornate patterns, hidden lights glowing warm, expensive, golden, smooth like silk melted into stone. But it's just a ceiling. Pretty, useless, silent. Just like every hour I've spent here not knowing if he'll ever open his eyes. Not knowing if he'll ever speak.
Then—
A voice.
Not mine. Not in my head.
"Your friends are fucking loud."
I freeze.
I'm not breathing.
It's like a punch to my lungs. I stare straight ahead at that stupid golden ceiling, eyes wide, heartbeat banging against my ears like it's trying to crawl out of my chest.
That voice.
Deep. Sharp. Low like gravel soaked in honey, but not the sweet kind. The dangerous kind—the kind you choke on. It's smooth but edged with pure disdain. Casual, like he doesn't give a damn. Masculine in a way that grabs you by the throat and drags you to attention. It's the kind of voice that doesn't ask you to listen. It makes you.
I slowly turn my head to the left. My fingers tremble as I reach out and slide the curtain aside again, careful and quiet like I might break something if I move too fast.
He's already looking at me.
Eyes locked. Staring.
Not blinking. Not soft.
Those eyes are a shade too dark for comfort—predatory, piercing, cold. They hit harder than the words he just said.
I swallow thickly, the back of my throat suddenly dry. My tongue feels like it forgot how to work. "Wha…what?"
He raises one perfect eyebrow, mocking. Like he can't believe I need clarification.
"You heard me." His voice again, this time sharper. "I said your friends are fucking loud. It's annoying."
My cheeks burn.
Not from shame.
From how fast he shoves a knife into my chest without even trying.
"They didn't know you were here," I mutter, trying to keep my voice from shaking. ", I mean…"
He doesn't answer.
Of course he doesn't.
He just looks away, like I'm a bug on his wall.
I hate that it makes my stomach twist.
But I can't stop looking at him. The cuts on his cheek have healed into faint lines, just shadows now. His nose—sharp and deadly. Lips full but pulled into a flat, uninterested line. The bruises on his face only highlight how viciously beautiful he is. Not delicate. Not soft. But devastating.
Even injured, he looks like someone who would walk through fire and make it kneel.
"So you can talk," I murmur, my voice smaller than I want it to be. "You just… don't like to."
His jaw shifts. That tick in his temple returns like it's been waiting. "No," he says flatly. "I don't want to."
God.
Why does that sound like a threat?
The silence grows thick again. He doesn't even glance at me now. He just stares at the ceiling like I don't exist.
I twist my fingers in the blanket, hating how my heart still flutters like a fucking idiot. He spoke. He finally spoke. And all he did was insult my friends and shut me down.
He shifts a little, and even that movement looks sharp. Like he doesn't waste effort on anything that doesn't matter.
I'm about to say something—anything—just to keep him talking. Just to make it real that the man I've crushed over for a goddamn year is actually speaking words. But before I can get a breath out, his voice cuts in again.
"Shut the curtain."
I blink. "What?"
He doesn't even look at me. Just says it again, "Shut. The curtain." Slower this time. Rude as fuck. Not loud, not sharp—just quiet and condescending, like he can't believe I'm still here.
And I hate how I still stare.
I hate how even his cruelty makes my chest tight.
I hate how much I want to stay on this side of the curtain forever.
But I pull it.
Fingers trembling.
The luxury curtain slides shut between us again, thicker than fabric. Like a wall.
And the moment I'm hidden from him again, everything inside me crashes.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Why does my throat feel tight?
Why does one sentence from him feel like a slap and a kiss at once?
He doesn't know me.
He doesn't want to know me.
He just told me to get lost.
Still, I lie there, facing that curtain. Staring at it like I can se
e through it. And I whisper, like a fucking idiot, into the silence:
"…I waited for you to wake up."
But he doesn't hear that.
He doesn't want to.
And maybe he never will.
It's, burning.
Burning in my skin. Burning in my chest. Burning in my silence.
Because now I've heard his voice.
And now I don't think I can forget it even if I tried.
_________________
I don't eat much at breakfast. The food tastes like air and my stomach knots up the moment I remember he's still behind that stupid curtain. Silent. Cold. Untouchable. But breathing. Alive.
That should be enough.
It's not.
I lean back on the pillow, staring at the edge of the curtain between us. a piece of cloth, but it feels like a damn wall. He's so close I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. But I don't. He hates that. I learned that on day one when I tried to peek and he yanked it shut so hard I flinched like he slapped me.
We've been in this same room for days now, and he still hasn't said another word after that one time. Not a damn sound. He breathes. He shifts sometimes. I hear the occasional rustle of sheets. But nothing else.
And I can't take the silence anymore.
"Are you mad at me?" I say quietly, not even sure if he's awake. My voice cracks halfway, stupid emotions clogging my throat.
I press my lips together, fists clenched under the blanket. "I know I hurt you. I didn't mean to. God, I didn't even touch you, but I still managed to wreck everything. I'm sorry. I really am. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing but— I'm trying."
Silence.
I swallow and go on, "I hurt too, you know? It's not just you lying broken behind a fucking curtain. I didn't get out untouched."
Then his voice cuts through, sharp and low like a blade against skin. "Stop."
It slices straight through my breath.
"I didn't ask for your apology," he says, like every word is poison he's tired of spitting. "And I definitely didn't ask for your confessions."
My heart thumps. Loud. Embarrassed. Fucking rejected.
I blink fast, stare hard at the ceiling to push the tears back. Not now. Not in front of him. Not in front of the boy I crushed on like a lovesick idiot for a year. The same boy who now can't even stand to hear my voice.
Why does it hurt so fucking much?
I sniff, annoyed at myself. "Why are you so rude?" My voice is small, but I don't care.
"I said I'm sorry like a fucking sane person. I admitted I messed up, okay? I didn't hide, I didn't pretend. I owned it. And all you can do is throw it back like it means shit to you—"
"Because it does," he says, cold and flat.
"What?"
"Apologizing won't change anything."
I press a palm to my face. "Wow. Okay. God, you're rude."
He exhales slowly, I can hear it. "What did you expect?"
My breath hitches. That tone again. So calm. So unaffected. Like none of this touches him. Like none of it matters.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I expected basic fucking decency."
Nothing. He doesn't reply.
I turn my head to the side, bury it into the pillow, my throat burning. "Jerk," I mumble. It's the weakest insult I've ever said but it's all I've got.
Still, nothing.
Just the curtain. Still. Untouched. And the boy behind it—
No, the man—
so cold he makes winter jealous.
But I don't open it.
Because I know he doesn't like that.
"Still… you can talk to me, right?" I ask, my voice low, barely above a whisper, like I'm afraid of breaking something fragile. "You can be mad at me. You can be rude, cruel—whatever the fuck you want. But don't be like this. Don't act like I'm invisible. I feel so alone and I fucking hate it."
Silence.
Thick, goddamn silence.
I stare at the curtain between us, like it's some divine wall meant to punish me. I know better than to slide it open again.
Still nothing. Not a sound.
Then—
"That's not my concern," he mutters, voice deep, cool, and edged like steel that's been iced over.
And just like that, my breath catches.
That voice. That fucking voice.
It's like velvet soaked in venom. Low, smooth, and sharp enough to slit through bone. It's not the voice of some broken patient on the other side of a hospital curtain—it's the voice of a man who owns silence like a throne, who doesn't speak unless he knows the words will hit where it hurts.
And they do.
Every damn word.
I let out a breathless laugh, bitter and shaky, as my chest tightens. Wow. Fucking wow. The man I've spent the past year dreaming about, obsessing over like a fucking lunatic, turns out to be an asshole in silk.
Still, I ask, smiling without meaning it, "Did you… take lessons to be this rude, or were you just born with that talent?"
"Did you take lessons to be this shameless?"
It lands like a punch to the gut.
I swear, I flinch—like the word sliced through skin. There's no humor in his tone, no smirk behind the curtain. He says it flat. Like it's fact.
Shameless.
I blink hard. Once. Twice. My chest tightens, lips parting to say something—but nothing comes out. Because for a second, I believe him. I believe I'm shameless. That I deserve this.
My eyes sting, but I don't cry. Not for him. Not again.
I grab the remote and flick on the TV, jabbing the volume button until the damn thing is loud enough to rattle glass. A car chase explodes through the speakers. I don't even watch it—I just stare ahead, jaw clenched, like maybe the noise will drown out how humiliated I feel.
For a while, he doesn't say shit.
Then—"Keep it low."
I don't even look toward the curtain. "Why?" I ask, teeth gritted. "It's me being entertained. You know, since that's apparently not your fucking concern."
Silence again. But this time, it's the cold kind. The kind that stretches out and coils around your ribs.
Then his voice again. Clipped. Controlled.
"Figures. Something that loud and brainless would suit you."
I laugh. Out loud. Like a cracked mirror laughing at itself. "You've got a fucking gift, you know that?" I spit. "You don't talk for days, but the moment you do, you twist the knife like a goddamn surgeon."
He doesn't respond.
Of course he doesn't.
Because he doesn't need to. He already knows he's won this round. He always wins—without raising his voice, without stepping out from behind that damn curtain. His voice cuts sharper than any scalpel the doctors ever used.
I lower the volume, slowly. Not because he asked. Not because he deserves it. But because suddenly the noise feels like it's screaming inside my chest, not outside it.
I hate how much power he has over me.
I hate how I still think about the curve of his jaw I glimpsed once, the line of his lips, how fucking beautiful he is. How broken. And I hate that even now, I still care what he thinks. That I still hope, deep down, maybe he'll talk to me again tomorrow—even if it's just to hurt me.
Because hurt is something.
And I'll take something over nothing. Every time.
________________
I don't talk to him the next day.
Not a single word.
Not when the nurse checks his vitals. Not when the doctor whispers on my side about progress. Not even when a tray of food is wheeled in and the soft clinking sound from his side suggests he's awake, possibly eating—or just pretending.
Silence stretches between the two beds like a fucking canyon, wide and echoing.
It should feel like peace. It doesn't.
It feels like loneliness, but heavier. More personal.
I stare at the ceiling , I count every single time the AC hums. I name the damn plant in the corner of the room just to feel like someone is listening to me. I don't even know what the hell it is. But it's greener than the rest of this place, alive in ways I'm not.
And by night, that silence turns into something unbearable. It wraps around my throat. It presses into my ribs. It makes me feel like I'm suffocating, even with oxygen pumping strong and clear through my nose.
And I shouldn't. I really shouldn't ask.
But the words come anyway. Soft. Hesitant. A crack in my damn armor.
"…Since I didn't disturb you all day," I start, my voice barely louder than the soft click of the wall clock, "can I at least know your name?"
A beat.
Then his voice slices through the dark. "Why do you want to know?"
I clench my jaw. "Well, we almost died together. And we've spent over two months in this room. Shouldn't we at least know each other's names?"
A pause. And then his voice, sharp and cold: "Does that make us allies or something? Being dead together? Hurt together? Does it make you feel better? To know my name?"
He doesn't shout. He never does. But there's something in his voice—measured and dry, like he's holding himself back with teeth grinding behind it—that makes me want to throw the nearest damn object.
"Then what the fuck am I supposed to say?" I snap, the words ripping out before I can stop them. "I want to know the person who's been breathing in the same room as me. Who's behind that goddamn curtain. Even if you're rude as hell!"
My throat stings, and I blink fast.
"I said I'm sorry," I whisper. "I should've looked at the road. I know that. But it wasn't just my fault—"
"Then why are you apologizing for something you didn't cause?" he interrupts. "Why are you humiliating yourself for something you didn't do?"
The room feels colder all of a sudden. My blanket, the stupid soft expensive one that smells like lavender and sterile money, might as well be paper-thin.
"Because I want to," I whisper, and then louder: "Every time I close my eyes, it haunts me. That I'm the reason you're here. That you can't stand or sit or walk or whatever the fuck they're not telling me. And I know I can't change it. But god, I'd give anything if I could—"
"You don't even know me."
"I want to."
Silence.
It settles heavy again, but this time it's not peaceful. It's jagged and raw.
I dig my nails into the blanket, breathing hard. My voice cracks. "Does my presence bother you that much? Am I that much of a nuisance to you?"
Still, no answer.
I let out a bitter laugh. "Fucking hell. I'm such a clown."
And then, finally, his voice comes. Low. Flat. Like he's forcing it through a tight space in his throat.
"Can you just… stop it?"
I press my eyes shut.
But the tears come anyway. Hot and messy and stupid.
I try to swallow the sob that follows but it escapes like a broken piece of glass. "Sorry," I mutter, wiping my cheeks like it makes any difference. "Forget I said anything. Just forget it."
And I mean it. I don't want anything from him anymore. Not his name. Not his voice. Not even his damn silence.
I turn toward the plant again—the stupid green thing that's starting to look more alive than me—and try to focus on it, like it's a window, a world beyond this room. Like it can save me from myself.
Then I hear it.
So quiet. It barely even cuts through the hum of the air conditioning.
"…Zayan."
I freeze.
"What?"
A pause.
Then again, "My name. It's Zayan."
I turn my head slightly toward the curtain. My breath catches. His name hangs in the air, unexpected and devastating.
Zayan.
It hits like a slow burn—sharp, rich, unfamiliar and yet somehow already part of me. I whisper it in my head. Again. And again. Tasting every syllable. Not like a patient sharing a room with me. Not like someone who hates me. Not like the asshole who just tore me apart with his tongue.
No. This one is different. Real. Raw. Human.
Zayan.
The name is as beautiful as his voice and as his face .As sharp as his words. As cruel and smooth and goddamn intoxicating as the man who's been hiding behind that curtain.
The man I can't stop thinking about.
Zayan.
__________________
AUTHOR NOTE
One accident.
Two strangers with scars too deep to explain.
And finally… he speaks.
But does a name make him any less dangerous?
Or is this just the beginning of her unraveling?
I'll let you decide.
If this chapter made you feel anything—drop a comment below. I read every single one of them (yes, even the crazy ones), and they keep me going.
Follow, vote, share it with that one friend who loves slow-burn and pain.
Because the next part?
It's not getting softer. It's getting darker.