This man, lying in front of me, feels so far away. Sobreakable.
“Callan,” I whisper, his name falling from my lips like a fragile prayer. My voice cracks, but it’s all I can manage. Just a breath of sound that trembles in the sterile air.
I’ve been holding it together, trying so hard to be strong for him, for myself, for the possibility that everything will somehow turn out okay. Now, standing here, looking at him so small, so broken in that hospital bed, a sob rises in my throat.
I try to hold it back, to force it down, but it breaks free anyway, spilling from me in broken, desperate gasps. Theground splinters beneath me, my knees buckle, I’m falling. I slide to the floor, clutching the doorframe.
Sam steps past me, her movements careful and deliberate. She approaches the bed, her face drawn, and I watch her reach for his hand, her fingers trembling as she closes the distance. Her silent strength makes this harder. All I can do is sit here, paralyzed.
I should be by his side. I should be the one holding his hand, offering the reassurance that he’ll come back to me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my breath ragged and uneven, as I try to wrestle the grief and the fear back into submission. I need to get a grip. I need to be strong for him. He needs me. It doesn’t matter if every part of me is breaking.
Sam’s eyes meet mine, but she doesn’t say anything at first. Then she steps towards me, her hand reaching out. “Oh, Bree,” she says. “Come here, sweetheart.”
It shouldn’t be her responsibility to comfort me right now. This is her son, her child, lying there fighting for his life. Yet somehow, Sam is the one being strong, holding it together when I’m barely keeping my composure.
I take a shaky breath, forcing my legs to move, and with a trembling hand, I take Sam’s outstretched one. Her grip is firm, and she doesn’t let go until she’s sure I’m steady enough to stand on my own before she steps back, giving me the space I need.
Up close, it’s even worse. The sight of him, bruised and battered, is more than I can bear. His face is a map of cuts and contusions, a tragedy in itself. The slow rise and fall of his chest iswrong, controlled. It’s not him breathing. It’s the ventilator, and it feels like a cruel impersonation of whatshouldbe.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Sam says. “I’ll go see who would like to come in next.”
Her strength amazes me. This is her boy, and yet she’s the one standing tall when the rest of us are falling apart.
I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat, and slowly move closer to him. My hand hovers over his, my fingers trembling as I fight the paranoia that I might hurt him, like he could shatter under my touch. After what feels like an eternity, I gently rest my fingers against his hand, careful to avoid the IV lines and the tubes. His skin is cool under my touch.
I close my eyes for just a second, allowing the tears to fall, even though I told myself I wouldn’t cry. “You’re so stubborn, you know that?” I whisper. A weak laugh escapes me, despite everything. “So you’d better fight, Callan. You don’t get to give up. Not now, not ever.”
The ventilator hums in response, its rhythm too artificial. My grip tightens around his hand, desperate for some kind of sign to prove that he’s still here, still fighting. Anything.
I take a seat beside him, pressing my forehead to the edge of the bed. “I need you to come back to me.”
I lift my head slowly, my eyes searching his face for any sign of recognition, any indication that he hears me. That he knows I’m here. There’s nothing.
God, what I wouldn’t give to lose myself in those devastating blue eyes that somehow tear me down and build me back up, all in the same breath. To hear that strong rumble of his laugh that digs under my skin and settles in my bones. To feel the heat of that stupidly perfect grin that cracks through every hard day.
The ache isn’t just in my chest. It’severywhere, like something fundamental inside me has been scraped out. I swear I can still feel him, but it’s like I’m pressing my palm against glass, watching him from the other side, knowing that no matter how hard I push, I can’t reach him.
It’s the most suffocating feeling I’ve ever known.
thirty-seven
CALLAN
The world is a mess of noise, and none of it is helpful. Voices drift in and out, machines beep, but I can’t understand a damn thing they’re trying to say. Somewhere in the haze, I catch snippets of conversation, but it’s all muffled, like I’m underwater.
“…doing well without the ventilator…”
The words are clear enough to pierce through the fog, but the rest is lost.
A soft hand presses against mine.
Okay. That’s nice.
I try to squeeze it, to let whoever it is know that, yeah, I’m still in here, but my body has apparently filed for early retirement. Nothing moves. I don’t even twitch.
Fantastic.
