Anything.
There’s nothing.
The silence lands heavier than words ever could, sinking deep into my chest, not relief, not safety, but something colder.
Something that feels dangerously close to rejection.
I dress in borrowed clothes from Tate’s wardrobe, soft leggings, an oversized jumper that hangs off me just right, carrying the faint, comforting scent of her detergent. It feels wrong wearing something so gentle when everything inside me is frayed.
I retreat to the living room and make myself hot chocolate, my movements automatic, distant. I curl up on the couch, knees drawn in, the television filling the space with meaningless noise I don’t actually hear. It’s just there to remind me I’m not alone.
It doesn’t work.
The emotions hit without warning, sudden and crushing, like a collapse from the inside out. My chest tightens painfully, breath stuttering as everything I’ve been holding back crashes down at once. Fear. Loss. Longing. I clutch at the fabric over my heart as if that might stop it from breaking open.
My hand finds my phone.
I open my messages, scrolling until his name fills the screen. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling. I almost text him. Almost give in to the pull that feels as natural as breathing.
Then I stop.
I lock the screen and toss the phone onto the table like it’s burned me, curling tighter into myself as the tears finally come. They fall freely now, hot, relentless, soaking into the borrowed fabric as I let myself unravel in the quiet.
I don’t remember falling asleep.
Only that exhaustion eventually drags me under, heavy and merciless, pulling me into darkness before I can stop it, leaving the ache, and the silence, waiting for me when I wake.
The shrill ring of my phone tears me from sleep, dragging me violently back to the surface. My heart slams against my ribs, disoriented panic flooding my veins as I fumble for the screen.
“Tate?” My voice comes out rough, barely more than a croak.
“Emmy.” Her tone is clipped now, professional, urgent, stripped of softness. “I’m at the hospital. Mr Blackwood, bed nine, his condition hasdeteriorated rapidly. The doctors don’t think he has more than a couple of hours left.”
The words hit like ice water.
“I know you’ve formed… a bond with him,” she adds more gently. “I thought you might want the chance to say goodbye.”
Cold spreads through me, sharp and paralysing.
“No,” I whisper. “No, I, I’ll come in.”
I don’t allow myself to think. Thinking would slow me down. Fear propels me instead.
I’m on my feet in seconds, dragging on the first jacket I find in Tate’s wardrobe, my hands clumsy and unsteady. I shove my feet into shoes, call a taxi without looking at the screen, my mind already racing ahead of me.
Mr Blackwood’s quiet presence. The way I talk to him when no one else does. The strange comfort I found in that room.
I can’t not be there.
But confusion coils tight beneath the panic, dark and insistent.
He was stable. Improving. Every day a little better.
So what changed?
The hospital lights are too bright, too unforgiving, buzzing overhead as I hurry down corridors I know by heart. The familiar becomes distorted by urgency, by the sharp edge of unease scraping at my spine. I scan my badge without thinking. Muscle memory takes over.
ICU. Bed nine.
