“Ray’s with her,” I say, my voice trembling. “He’s doing CPR.”
“That’s good. That’s really good,” she reassures me. “I need you to go back to them and tell me exactly what’s happening.”
I force my legs to move back down the hallway, and I stop in Anika’s doorway. Ray is over her, his hands locked together as he drives down hard on her chest, over and over again. The carer is beside him, counting, checking, trying to guide him, but he’s not listening.
He’s growling under his breath, like he can force her heart to start just by sheer will.
“Oh god,” I whisper, my voice barely there. “I think . . . I think it’s too late.”
RAY
The ambulance crew feel like they take forever, and yet not long enough, because the moment they pull me away from Anika, I feel like fighting them so I can keep going. Because deep down, I know . . . I just know it’s over.
My back hits the wall, and I slide down it, my body folding in on itself as I sit there uselessly, watching strangers’ hands moveover her, hearing their voices call out instructions that mean nothing now.
They keep going. They keep trying. But I know.She’s gone.
My best friend.
My whole fucking world.
Gone.
When the paramedic crouches in front of me, I don’t look at him properly. I can’t. I just nod, once, because I already understand what he’s about to say.
And saying it out loud will make it real.
“We’re going to tidy things up,” he says gently, his voice too calm, too soft for what’s just happened. “And then we’ll give you some time alone with her.”
Time.
A small word that feels so heavy. And it means nothing now, because she’s gone.
Somewhere behind me, I hear Wynter sobbing. It’s distant. Like it’s happening in another room, another life. But I know she’s here, I can feel her.
I should go to her. I should pull her close, tell her it’s okay.
But I can’t move.
I don’t have anything left in me.
So, I stay where I am, on the floor, staring straight ahead while everything around me carries on without me.
Eventually, the room empties. Voices fade. Footsteps disappear.
And then . . . . . . it’s just me and her.
I inhale deeply, like I’ve just remembered how. My eyes trail over her. She’s still lying flat. Everything about it is wrong. She hates lying flat—it makes her breathing worse, makes her uncomfortable—and my chest tightens at the thought that even now, even like this, she’s not where she should be.
I drag myself up, my body heavy, uncooperative, like it doesn’t belong to me anymore. And then slowly, carefully, I move to the head of the bed and press the controls, lifting her back up, adjusting her the way she likes.
The way she always asks me to.
“There,” I murmur hoarsely. “That’s better, yeah?” My voice cracks.
I tuck the blanket up to her chest. She looks peaceful, like she’s just fallen asleep. Like if I wait long enough, she’ll open her eyes and tell me to stop fussing over her.
I stare at her, drinking in every detail—her hair, her skin, the shape of her lips—trying to burn it all into my memory before it fades, before this moment becomes something I can’t hold on to anymore.
