Then he shouts, frantic: “Get a doctor! Now! He’s awake, Sebastian’s awake!”
His hand never leaves my cheek. Warm. Steady. The only thing anchoring me to this moment. Despite the tremble in his voice, that hand tells me I’m safe. It quiets the roar in my head.
“How do you feel, Seb? Can you… Can you open your eyes, baby?”
My tongue feels like sandpaper, thick and dry against the roof of my mouth. I can’t speak. But that voice, that soft, steady voice, keeps me from sinking. Keeps me trying.
With what feels like an impossible effort, I manage to crack my eyelids open, just a sliver, and force out a few words. But the sight that greets me makes my stomach twist.
Remi.
His eyes are glassy, rimmed with red. His face is drawn, wrecked. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, and it shatters something inside me.
“W-what… what happened, Remi?”
He leans in, brushing my forehead with his fingers like he still can’t believe I’m awake. Like he’s afraid I’ll slip away again if he stops touching me.
“You… you fell down the stairs, Seb…” His jaw tightens around the words, like each one cuts him open. He swallows hard, then continues, voice barely holding together. “You were hurt, badly… You’ve been unconscious for three days. But you’re awake now. You’re here. Thank God…”
His hand stays on my skin, and in that warmth, I feel something steady anchor itself inside me again.
I’m here.
And so is he.
Remi squeezes my hand tightly, and then, finally, he breaks.
He starts to sob, openly and uncontrollably, just as a doctor enters the room. The man approaches quietly and, with a gentle tone, asks Remi to step outside.
I try to protest, to tell him not to leave, but Remi leans in and strokes my shoulder with the softest touch.
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be right outside the door,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you… I’ll see you in a bit, okay?”
I nod, though every part of me wants to cling to him. But I let him go. For now.
The doctor turns to me, Dr Warren, his name tag says, and offers a calm, professional smile.
He starts by shining a blinding light in one eye, then the other, watching closely. Next, he checks the monitor beside my bed, listening to the steady rhythm of my heart. Then he lifts the sheet and begins a full physical exam, methodical, impersonal.
Finally, he tests my reflexes. The sudden prick of a needle on my arm makes me yelp.
Dr Warren glances up at me with a reassuring nod. “The fact that you can feel that is actually very encouraging,” he says. “It means your sensory response hasn’t been affected by the head injury. From what I can tell so far, all your functions are intact.”
I exhale slowly, a faint tremor rippling through my chest. It’s the first flicker of hope I’ve felt since waking up.
Dr Warren’s tone is calm, reassuring, though his eyes remain sharply focused as he taps and presses along my arms, my legs, my ribs, methodical and precise.
I grit my teeth against the discomfort. I’m still foggy, but I need answers. I need to understand why I’m lying in a hospital bed, barely able to move.
“Doctor… what happened to me?” My voice cracks with the question. “Why am I here?”
He looks up at once, pausing to study me carefully before responding.
“You fell down a flight of stairs and suffered a significant head injury. You’ve been unconscious for three days, Sebastian.”
No softening of the truth. No gentle lead-in. Just the facts, cold and clean.
I blink, stunned. Three days.
