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We left the house the second we realized the crashed car was Ethan’s and reached the accident scene just as the ambulance was pulling away with Zayn inside. We followed it, and the guys arranged for him to be brought to the hospital we’re in now.

The place had been swarming with reporters and cameras when we arrived, so the news spread all the way to New York within minutes. Our parents called in a panic, sick with worry.

We’ve been sitting outside this door for what must be two hours now, staring at it with a dread so heavy it seems to settle over every breath we take.

Part of me wants it to open.

Another part is terrified that it will.

Terrified of hearing the one thing I keep trying to force out of my mind.

“I don’t know, but I’m losing my fucking mind here,” Chase mutters, pushing himself to his feet.

“Do you want some water?” Chris asks softly from beside me.

My gaze remains fixed on the door, which suddenly feels enormous, as though it has grown larger with every passing minute. I shake my head.

I don’t want water.

I don’t want anything.

I just want to see Zayn.

I want to hear his voice. I want him to walk out of there and tell me this was all some sick joke. I want to see that familiar smile, hear him laugh, watch his chest rise and fall with every breath.

I just want to see him.

Tears spill down my cheeks again, hot and relentless, and Chris wraps an arm around me from the side. My head sinks onto his shoulder, too heavy to hold up on my own, and he rests his against mine.

“For someone who’s that in love with you,” he says with a faint, exhausted laugh, “he’s gonna fight like hell to make it back to you.”

His words only make me cry harder.

A vast, hollow emptiness opens inside my chest, swallowing whatever little hope I had managed to hold together.

God, I can’t lose him.

Please protect him.

Please let him be okay.

Time keeps dragging so slowly that the waiting becomes almost unbearable. Every second stretches into an eternity, each one carrying me closer to an answer I’m terrified to hear.

No one says much anymore.

Even our breathing seems muted beneath the weight of the silence.

Then, finally, the door opens.

My stomach drops so violently that nausea rolls through me. My eyes squeeze shut on instinct, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

“Zayn wants to…”

The second we hear that Zayn wants anything, every head snaps toward the doctor. Her words falter when we immediately rise to our feet, panic flashing across her face at the sudden movement.

Without waiting for another word, we rush past her, the guys throwing apologies over their shoulders as we hurry through the doorway.

“But not all at once,” we hear behind us after the door swings shut.