I spent the entire day sitting beside his bed, watching machines breathe for him, seeing his chest rise and fall in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to him. Occasionally, a nurse wouldcome in, adjust something, and speak in that quiet, careful voice they use when they aren’t sure if you are fragile.
He hasn’t spoken in two days.
A part of me keeps replaying our last real conversation, trying to remember every detail. Did I say I loved him before I left the house that morning? Did I roll my eyes at him? Did I laugh? The details blur, and that terrifies me.
Not only that, but Jace was different with me today when we got to the hospital.
Not the loud, smirking, I-don’t-give-a-shit version he wears at school. Not the cocky shit who leans back in his chair and watches girls trip over themselves for him. This was something else.
I sensed it before I could put a name to it.
I saw it happen in real time.
He stood in the corner with his usual careless posture, hands in his pockets. I could feel him watching us, and something in him shifted. His shoulders stiffened, every line of him strained as if the air itself had thickened. The cocky tilt of his head. His gaze became expressionless. Back to his resident fuck boy reporting for duty. That is the part that keeps replaying.
Jace’s eyes. They did not hold sarcasm, heat, or that lazy hunger he wears when he’s trying to get under my skin. They became empty. Cold. Sealed off.
I saw the wall go up.
I watched him shut down right in front of me. He was so different from the boy who comforted me in the kitchen this morning.
He muttered something about going to work. His voice was steady, as if he had locked away every emotion deep inside.
Then he walked out.
I told myself it was okay. That sterile hallways and beeping machines don’t suit a boy who fucks first and thinks never. Heavoids vulnerability. And he definitely doesn’t do fragile fathers and daughters clinging to hope.
He does sex and smirks. He burns through girls the way other guys burn through cigarettes. Quick fuck, quick fix. No attachments.
I know that.
But it still hit.
That split second when his jaw clenched and his eyes went blank, and I felt him pull away. His wall didn’t just slide into place; it snapped up suddenly.
I’ve been thinking about that moment all day.
My phone feels heavy in my hand, the screen dark, reflecting a distorted version of my face back at me. I press the button, and it bursts to life, too bright against the quiet of the room.
Sam’s message is still open.
Sam:Hey where are you? I haven’t seen you today.
The words stare back at me, casual and harmless, completely unaware of the crater my life has become.
The timestamp sits beneath it in small grey numbers.
11:02 AM.
It is almost midnight now. Thirteen hours of silence. It shouldn’t take this long to answer a simple question.
I have opened and closed it so many times that the motion has become automatic now—thumb pressing, screen lighting up, thumb pressing again, and the screen going dark.
My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, and I started typing things all day to send to her, then stopped and erased it before the words had a chance to settle.
Yeah, just at the hospital with my dad.
Delete.
