The world, I'd decided, had a truly vicious sense of humor. My own personal hell wasn't just the dull, constant, throbbing ache that radiated up from my ankle to my knee.
It was the silence. It was the beige walls of Room 304, the faint, lingering smell of industrial cleaner, and the rhythmic, metronomic beep… beep… beep… of the heart rate monitor beside my bed, a mocking reminder that time was, in fact, still moving on without me.
Tonight, that silence was particularly loud. It was Friday, October 24th. It was Prom Night.
My phone was a small, glowing rectangle of exquisite torture in my hand. I'd been scrolling for the last hour, a digital voyeur to the life I was supposed to be living. My Instagram feed was a flood of "pre-prom" pictures, a tidal wave of sparkling dresses, rented tuxedos, and bright, hopeful smiles.
I saw a picture from Marco's mom. There was Tristan, looking unnervingly sharp in a charcoal gray suit, his hair actually styled.
He looked like a stranger, like the leading man in a movie, not the guy I ran suicides with. Beside him was Marco, a disaster of magnificent confidence in a slim-fit black suit, his grin so wide it threatened to split his face. And then there was Gab, a mountain in slate-gray, looking profoundly uncomfortable and dangerously formal, like a bodyguard who had just been forced to attend a party he was supposed to be protecting.
My teammates. My brothers. They were going. They were living the night we were all supposed to share.
My own suit was hanging in my closet at home. It was a deep navy blue, one I'd saved up for. My dad had taken me to get it two months ago, back when my future was a straight, clean line. Back when my ankles worked. We'd had it tailored. It was perfect. Now, it was just a two-thousand-pesos shroud for a ghost.
I'd told Christine to go. I'd insisted. "Go with your friends," I'd said, forcing a smile that felt like broken glass. "Have a good time. Someone needs to be there to make sure Marco doesn't challenge the DJ to a dance-off and hurt himself."
She'd just looked at me with those sharp, analytical eyes of hers, the ones that always saw right through my bravado. "We'll talk about it later," she'd said, which was her polite way of saying "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
But she hadn't texted. Not in the last few hours. The time on my phone read 7:32 PM. The prom had started half an hour ago. She was there. She had to be. She was the social queen, the heart of the party. She'd made the logical choice, the one I'd told her to make.
A bitter, acidic lump formed in my throat. I wasn't mad at her. I was just... sad. I was the guy on the sideline. The footnote. The tragic, motivational story of "Win it for Aiden." And as I lay there, staring at the unforgiving, white plaster tomb that encased my leg, I had never felt more alone.
A soft knock echoed on my door.
I sighed, tossing my phone onto the bedside table. "Come in," I grumbled, assuming it was the nurse with the night's dose of painkillers, the ones that would just turn my sharp despair into a dull, fuzzy one.
The door opened.
And my world, which had been a flat, beige monochrome, exploded into color.
It wasn't a nurse. It was Christine.
But it wasn't the Christine I'd seen in the hospital yesterday. It wasn't the sweaty, intense, spandex-clad warrior from the practice field.
This was Christine Reyes, a supernova in a simple, elegant, floor-length gown of the deepest, richest emerald green I had ever seen. The color made her skin glow. Her hair, which I was so used to seeing in a high, chaotic ponytail, was down, styled in dark, shimmering waves that fell over her bare shoulders. She had makeup on—just enough to make her eyes, already so intense, look impossibly deep and bright.
She was, without a single doubt, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my entire life.
She stood in the doorway for a beat, a small, nervous smile on her face. And she was holding a large canvas tote bag.
"Tine..." I was speechless. My mouth was dry. "What... what are you doing here?" I looked at her, at the clock, at her. "You're... you're missing it. The prom."
She stepped into the room, her smile widening. "Am I?" she asked, her voice light. "That's weird. Because I'm here. And my date is here." She walked over to the bed, the "here" she was pointing at being me. "So it looks to me like the prom is right here in Room 304. And honestly, I heard the drinks at the real one is terrible."
I just stared at her, my brain failing to compute the sheer, overwhelming goodness of her. "You... you're not going?"
"Of course not, you idiot," she said, her voice softening, losing its teasing edge. "The prom isn't a building, Aiden. It's a night. It's a date. You're my date. I'm not going to be at some sweaty gym while the most important person is in here. We're partners in the grind, right? That means we're partners in this, too."
She dropped her tote bag on the floor, and it was like Mary Poppins's carpet bag of miracles.
"Now," she said, all business, "we have some work to do. This lighting is a clinical nightmare."
She reached into the bag and pulled out a long, tangled string of battery-powered fairy lights. She began, with a look of intense concentration, to unwrap them and drape them over the headboard of my bed, along the IV pole, and around the cold, metal frame of the window. When she clicked the little battery pack on, the room was instantly transformed. The harsh, fluorescent overhead light was now just a dull memory, replaced by a hundred tiny, warm, golden stars. The sterile room suddenly felt... magical.
"Okay," she said, surveying her work. "Better. Now, music."
She pulled out a small, blue Bluetooth speaker. She tapped her phone, and a second later, a song filled the room. Not the thumping, generic pop of a DJ, but a playlist she had clearly made. It was an upbeat, soulful indie track, one we both loved.
"Christine, this is..." I started, but she shushed me.
"Not done."
She reached back into the bag and her face grew serious. She pulled out a small, clear plastic box. Inside was a wrist corsage, a delicate spray of white roses and green ribbon.
"This was delivered to my house this afternoon," she said softly. "My mom said a very handsome, very fast delivery boy dropped it off. Looked a lot like Marco Gumaba."
My heart swelled. I'd ordered it last week, before... everything. I'd given Marco my mom's credit card and begged him to pick it up and deliver it if I couldn't.
"And," she said, pulling out a second, smaller box, "I have this. Which I was supposed to give to you when you arrived at my door, looking all handsome in that navy suit I know you were so proud of."
She pulled out a single, perfect white rose boutonniere.
She stepped close to the bed, the scent of her perfume, something light and sweet like jasmine, cutting through the hospital air.
"I, uh... I'm not exactly in the suit," I said, my voice thick. I gestured to my ratty t--shirt and the standard-issue hospital gown.
"Close your eyes," she commanded.
I did. I felt her lean in, her hand brushing against my chest.
"Okay, open."
I looked down. She had carefully, meticulously pinned the rose to the collar of my hospital gown. The sight of it—that perfect, elegant flower against the faded, pale-blue cotton—was the most beautiful, heartbreaking, and hilarious thing I had ever seen. A laugh, a real one, bubbled up out of my chest.
"It's perfect," I said, my voice catching.
"Now, me," she said, holding out her wrist.
I took the corsage. My hands were clumsy, my left one fumbling with the elastic.
"Sorry, I'm... not great at this."
"You're doing fine," she said, her eyes never leaving my face.
I finally slipped it onto her wrist. The white roses against her emerald dress. "There," I breathed.
"Now," she said, "it's official." She reached into the bag one last time, pulling out a plastic bottle of sparkling cider and two plastic hospital cups. "To Room 304. The most exclusive party of the year."
She poured, and we "clinked" our plastic cups. The cider was sweet, bubbly, and perfect. We sat there for a moment, just taking it all in—the lights, the music, the quiet.
"So," I said, a new wave of frustration hitting me as I looked down at the cast on my leg, a literal anchor. "We're all dressed up, we have the music, we have the lights... but I guess the main event is canceled. I'm not exactly... built for dancing right now."
Christine's smile faded, replaced by that familiar, competitive fire. The "mad girlfriend" look.
"Who says?"
She stood up. The song on her playlist changed. The upbeat track faded, and a new one began. A slow, soulful ballad. Ed Sheeran. "Perfect." Of course.
"Christine, what are you doing? I can't... I literally cannot stand up."
"I know," she said. She walked over, put down her cup, and gently, carefully, took my hands. "So, we'll dance like this."
"Like... like what?"
"Like this," she repeated. She stood in the small, open space between my bed and the wall. She was still holding my hands. And she began to sway, slowly, to the music.
I was sitting up in the bed, and she was standing, and we were holding hands. She'd sway left, and my upper body would follow. She'd sway right, and I'd sway with her.
"This is," I said, a laugh catching in my throat, "the most ridiculous thing I have ever done."
"This is," she said, her eyes shining in the glow of the fairy lights, "the most romantic thing I've ever done. So shut up and dance with me, Mr. Robinson."
So I did. We "danced." I sat, she stood, and we swayed in the golden light of my hospital room. She was right. It wasn't about the movement. It was about the moment. Her, in her stunning dress. Me, in my hospital gown and boutonniere. The music swelled, and she stepped closer, until she was leaning against the bed rail, and we weren't really swaying anymore. We were just... close.
"You were supposed to be the star tonight," I whispered, my thumb tracing the back of her hand. "The prom queen. Everyone at the real prom... they're all missing this. You. Looking like this."
"They can have it," she whispered back, her voice low. "Their feet are going to hurt, the music is too loud, and they're all worried about who's looking at them. I'm not. I'm right where I'm supposed to be. I'm with my date."
She leaned in, her forehead resting against mine. "And for the record, this is a way better view. That hospital gown is doing wonders for you."
I laughed, a real, full laugh that came from my gut. The despair I'd been drowning in all day was gone. It was just... gone.
"One more thing," she said, pulling back, a mischievous glint in her eye.
"What now? You didn't hire a magician, did you?"
"No. But... we have to. It's the rules."
She pulled out her phone and flipped the camera. "Awkward prom photos."
She leaned in, her cheek next to mine. Click. A picture of us, smiling, the fairy lights like stars behind us.
"Okay, now goofy face," she commanded.
Click.
"Now, prom king looking lovingly at his queen," she said.
I looked at her. She was smiling at the camera, but I wasn't. I was just looking at her, and my heart felt so full I thought it might actually burst.
Click.
"Perfect," she said, looking at the photo.
"One more," I said.
She turned to look at me, surprised. I leaned in and kissed her, a long, slow kiss that was full of everything I couldn't say. Full of gratitude, and awe, and a love so deep it ached.
I pulled back. "Okay. Now we're done."
She was blushing, her smile dazzling. "Okay. Now we're done."
She sat on the edge of the bed, careful of my leg, and pulled out the Doritos and the blue Gatorade. We sat there for an hour, in our own private, starlit prom, eating junk food and talking. We didn't talk about the Palaro. We didn't talk about the injury. We talked about her friends, about my classes, about a stupid movie we both wanted to see, about where we'd go for our first real date when I got out of this place.
I'd been in a dark, suffocating hole all day. I'd been grieving a dream I thought was dead. But as I sat there, laughing with this incredible, beautiful, fiercely loyal girl, I realized she hadn't just come here to cheer me up. She had come here to remind me what I was fighting for.
The Palaro was a stage, but it wasn't the whole story. My father's dream was a legacy, but it wasn't my entire identity. My life was bigger than that. It was right here, in this room.
"Christine," I said, as she was packing up her things, the lights and speaker, the night winding down.
"Yeah?"
"I was... I was in a bad place today. A really bad place. I felt like I'd lost everything."
She stopped packing and looked at me, her expression soft.
"You didn't just save my prom night," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "I think you might have just saved... me."
She came over to the bed and kissed me on the forehead.
"Partners in the grind, remember?" she whispered. "That means we fight together. Now, get some rest. You've got a lot of rehab ahead of you. And I expect you to attack it as hard as you attack the basket."
"Yes, ma'am," I said.
She left, and the room was quiet again. The fairy lights were gone, the music was off. I was alone, back in the beige, antiseptic room.
But everything was different. The silence wasn't empty anymore. It was filled with the echo of her laugh, with the memory of her smile. I looked at the cast on my leg. It was still a prison, but it didn't feel like a life sentence anymore. It just felt... temporary.
I picked up my phone. I didn't go to Instagram. I went to my calendar, and I made a new entry, six weeks from today.
"First Day of Rehab."
My comeback hadn't started yet. But the war had. And for the first time, I felt like I was going to win.