“I’m sorry I left,” I whisper. “The doctor said you were stable. They said you were going to be out until morning and that I should go home, and I did, and I—”
My voice cracks on the last word.
I press my lips together until I can get control of it again.
“I didn’t leave because I didn’t want to be here,” I say, quieter. “I left because I thought I could handle it. I thought I could walk into the house and just… get through the night and come back.”
I stare at his hand in mine.
It’s bigger than mine but frail. It’s never been like that before. Seeing his hand—the hand that’s carried me my whole life—so weak nearly breaks me.
“I didn’t handle it,” I admit.
The words are hard to get out.
“I broke,” I tell him, and my throat tightens again. “I came home and it was quiet and I couldn’t stand it. It wasn’t even the quiet, it was… the idea that it could be quiet like that again. Every night. Forever.”
I swallow.
I keep my voice low, even though no one else is in the room.
My gaze flicks up to his face.
He looks the same as he did yesterday. Still. Unaware. Out.
But what if he can hear me? I’m suddenly horrified by the thought. What if he’s sitting in there somewhere, and I’m just… dumping all of this on him?
I hold my breath for a second as if I might hear an answer.
Nothing.
Just the monitor.
Just the soft mechanical hiss of something keeping time.
I exhale slowly.
“I’m going to pretend you can’t,” I decide, because I have to keep talking or I’m going to drown in my own head. “But if you can… I’m sorry. I’m trying to be careful.”
I rub my thumb over his hand again.
“You scared me,” I tell him, and my voice goes rough. “I know you didn’t mean to. I know you hate being fussed over. I know you’d tell me to stop hovering.”
I try to smile, but it doesn’t work.
“I can’t,” I say. “Not right now.”
My chest aches, and I lean forward until my forehead is almost resting on the edge of the mattress. Not touching him. Just close.
“I called… my boss,” I whisper. “Nico.”
Saying his name in here feels wrong and also inevitable, because he’s part of what happened yesterday, whether I like it or not.
“I didn’t have anyone else,” I admit, and the shame hits hard even though I know it shouldn’t. “And he came. He came so fast it was like he’d been waiting for the call.”
I glance at Dad again, that same panic rising.
“In fact, I think he was,” I whisper again, then force myself to keep going anyway. “He held me. He… took care of me.”
