The first thing I felt was weight.
Not pain. Not light. Just the heavy, sinking kind that presses down on your chest and refuses to move.
Then came sound — soft at first. A steady beeping. A low hum. The distant shuffle of footsteps on tile.
And then… her voice.
Faint, broken, familiar.
I wanted to open my eyes, but my body didn't listen. Every limb felt foreign — detached. Like I'd been dropped into myself from a great height and hadn't quite landed yet.
"Please," she whispered. "Just wake up."
That word — please — reached somewhere deeper than I wanted it to.
I remembered.
The sound of screeching tires. The flash of headlights. The moment instinct overrode thought.
Her hand.
The impact.
Then nothing.
And now — this.
Her voice, trembling just enough to crack the air around it.
"Adrian… please."
I forced my eyes open.
The light burned at first — too white, too sharp. It took a few seconds for the world to come into focus.
A hospital room.
White walls. Machines. The smell of antiseptic.
And her.
Curled up in the chair beside my bed, head resting against her arm, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Her hair had come loose, falling in soft waves that brushed against her cheeks.
She looked exhausted.
I blinked slowly. My throat felt raw when I tried to speak.
"Amara."
It came out rough — barely a sound. But she heard.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, glassy with disbelief.
"Adrian?"
Her voice cracked around my name.
I tried to smile, but it hurt. "Hey."
For a second, she just stared — as if she needed to make sure I was real. Then she stood, too fast, nearly tripping over the chair as she moved closer.
"You're awake."
I nodded, the motion slow, deliberate. "So it seems."
Her eyes filled again — relief and anger and something else all tangled together.
"You—" She stopped, swallowed hard. "You scared me."
I closed my eyes briefly. "That wasn't the plan."
She let out a shaky breath — half a laugh, half a sob. "You could've died."
"I didn't."
"You almost did."
Silence followed, thick and unsteady.
Her hands were trembling. I noticed because she kept trying to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and it kept falling again.
Finally, she said, "Why did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Follow me?... Protect me."
I didn't answer right away. My mind flickered back — I had watched her leave — tired,almost broken. I couldn't resist the urge so I followed her taxi.
The streetlight, the wet pavement, the way she'd stepped off the curb too soon, her eyes on her phone, not the road. The way I didn't think, just moved.
"It was instinct," I said quietly. "You weren't watching."
"I would've been fine—"
"No, you wouldn't have."
My tone was sharper than I intended. The image still lived behind my eyelids — the car, the sound, the weight of her arm in mine.
Her voice dropped, softer now. "You didn't even hesitate."
"I didn't have time to."
The truth was, there hadn't been a choice. Not for me.
If I had to do it again, I would. Every single time.
She looked away, blinking hard. "You got hurt because of me."
"I'm still here," I said, trying to make it sound simple. It wasn't.
Her jaw tightened. "That doesn't make it okay."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The monitor kept its quiet rhythm — steady, stubborn, alive.
She reached for the railing beside my bed, fingers brushing metal. I saw the hesitation before she finally let her hand settle near mine.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said again, but her voice wavered now — less anger, more fear.
"I couldn't have done anything else," I whispered.
She went still. Her gaze found mine, searching for something I couldn't give.
And maybe that was the problem — I didn't have the right words. Only the truth sitting quietly between us, too heavy to name.
The nurse came in a few minutes later, checking vitals, adjusting tubes. I answered what I could, half-listening.
Amara stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, pretending to be composed. But her eyes never left me. Not once.
When the nurse left, the silence returned — softer this time, almost fragile.
"How long was I out?" I asked.
"Almost twelve hours."
"Longer than I thought."
She nodded. "They said you lost a lot of blood. The cut was deep."
I glanced at the bandage wrapped around my side, the dull ache underneath. "Guess I was lucky."
She smiled faintly. "You call this lucky?"
"Luckier than the alternative."
The humor didn't quite land, but she smiled anyway. It didn't reach her eyes.
She stayed for hours after that.
Sometimes we talked — small, harmless things about work or the weather. Sometimes she just sat, quiet, tracing the edge of the blanket between her fingers.
When visiting hours ended, she didn't leave right away.
"I'll come back tomorrow," she said softly, standing near the door.
I nodded. "You don't have to."
"I want to."
Something in her tone left no room for argument.
As she turned to go, I said, "Amara."
She paused, glancing over her shoulder.
"Thank you," I murmured.
"For what?"
"For being here."
Her expression softened, just slightly. "Where else would I be?"
Then she was gone.
Night fell slow.
The room dimmed, machines humming their lonely rhythm. I couldn't sleep. My body ached, but my mind wouldn't quiet.
I kept seeing her face when she said you could've died.
The way her voice trembled like she'd been holding her breath since the moment I closed my eyes.
I wasn't used to being cared for. Not really. People cared about what I could do, what I could give. Not me.
But she looked at me like I mattered.
Not because of who I was — or what I was — but because I was there. Breathing. Real.
And that terrified me more than the accident ever could.
At some point, I must've drifted off. I woke hours later to the sound of footsteps and the faintest rustle of paper.
She was back.
Curled in the same chair, knees drawn to her chest, her notebook open on her lap.
The sight of her — the soft rise and fall of her breathing, the light catching her hair — pulled something deep inside me taut.
I wanted to say her name, to tell her to go home, to rest. But I didn't.
I just watched.
The quiet between us wasn't the same anymore.
It wasn't distance now. It was gravity — slow, steady, impossible to fight.
And as much as I wanted to pretend otherwise, I knew this moment — her in that chair, me in this bed — would change everything.
I closed my eyes again, letting the sound of her pen scratching against paper pull me under.
Outside, the rain had started once more — a soft, rhythmic tapping against the window.
I remembered the way her hand had felt when I'd pulled her away. The warmth, the fear, the relief.
And just before sleep took me again, I realized something quietly, painfully true:
I hadn't saved her out of instinct.
I'd done it because, for the first time in a very long time, losing someone had actually felt unbearable.
And that terrified me more than anything else ever could.