"Okay. You can go in, but only one at a time." She looks from me to the small group of us. "We don't want to overwhelm her." All the blood in my body rushes to my ears as she rattles off the room number and how to get there. It's a miracle I understood any of it.
Leaving the others behind without a word, I walk the hospital halls toward her room, my heart heavy, anticipation twisting tighter with each step.
The sterile smell of disinfectant, mixed with dread and apprehension, dominates the air all around. As I approach the room, my palms grow clammy, and a knot forms in my stomach.
The door creaks as I push it open, revealing a scene that instantly steals the breath from my lungs.
Mary’s sleeping form—fragile and vulnerable—lies covered in crisp white sheets, resting against her pale body. The fluorescent lights above cast an eerie glow, accentuating the shadows beneath her closed eyes.
Tubes snake around her, connecting her to machines that beep and hum. I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to continue, until my legs find their way and carry me to her bedside.
The closer I get, the more my heart hammers against my chest. The sight of her there, so small and frail, shatters the illusion of strength I’d held onto for so long. Reaching out slowly, my fingers hover above her hand.
The warmth radiating from her, even in her unconscious state, brings me closer—reassuring me she's here and alive, that she’s okay.
I sit down in the chair next to her bed. With bated breath, I take hold of her hand, lacing our fingers together, seeking solace in the simple touch that’s always brought me comfort. I study her face—her delicate features etched with lines of pain and fatigue. Her eyes, usually vibrant and full of life, are now shielded by heavy lids, as if guarding her from the danger of the world.
And it’s all my fault. She was always happy, full of life. I should’ve known I was pushing her too far. Way too much. She didn’t show up for school for weeks. Wouldn't answer my calls or texts. After two weeks of her being gone, she finally came back. The dark bags under her eyes told me she wasn't sleeping well.
Or at all.
She's been suffering alone for over six months. Six goddamn months.
A single tear escapes from the corner of my eye, tracing a path down my cheek. I blink away the rest, determined to remain strong for her.
This isn’t the time for sorrow—it’s a time for hope. Time seems to lose all meaning as I sit by her side, clutching her hand tightly. The outside world fades away, leaving the two of us alone. I pray silently, begging for any sign she’ll be okay beyond the doctor's words. And then, almost imperceptibly, her fingers twitch within mine.
***
It’s been four days, and the only time I’ve left was to shower and change out of my bloodied clothes. Ace tried dragging me from the room to get something to eat, but I refused to leave her side—which meant he’s been bringing me food from the cafeteria downstairs and stale coffee to help keep me awake.
Sleeping has been impossible. With only a small chair next to Mary’s bed, I’ve managed a few hours here and there, only to wake up from the nightmare of finding her again. But this time, she wasn’t alive. Every time I close my eyes, I’m taken back to that moment, so it’s easier to avoid sleep. Not when she’s right in front of me. Breathing.
Nurses have come and gone, offering me sad smiles as they check her vitals and replace the empty blood bags from the transfusions. Mary lost way too much blood, but after four days of recovery, she’s starting to look better. Her wrists are healing the way they should. The scarring will be brutal, but I’ll have to remind her it’s proof that she survived. Now it’s just waiting for her to open her eyes and wake up.
I’m not sure how long time has passed, as I rest my head against the side of her bed, my eyes closing on their own even asI fight it. I can’t sleep—she might wake up—but when I feel the graze of smooth fingers in my hair, my head shoots up, and my breath catches.
Mary is looking right at me, a faint glimmer in her gaze. Her lip curves slightly, and heat rushes through me, loosening the hold on my throat.
“Am I dreaming?” Her voice sounds rough and dry from not talking, but my eyes still fill with tears.
I shake my head. “No, baby. You aren’t dreaming.” My voice scrapes out rough and raw. Mary blinks a few times, allowing her eyes to adjust to the lighting.
"I’m here," I whisper, the words falling apart as they leave me. "I'm right here with you." Her fingers twitch, trying to curl around mine, enough to ground me.
“Rebel, I'm so sorry.” The air punches out of me, and I bow my head to her stomach, pressing my face there, breathing her in, shaking.
"S-Seb," she murmurs, barely a whisper—yet it stabs straight through me.
Chapter 21
Mary
Ican'tbelievehe'shere. For the past six months, Seb has hated me. His sharp words cut deep—deeper than he'll ever know. And still, I never stopped loving him. Now, he's sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, his hand brushing mine as if none of it ever happened. I don't know what to do with the ache inside of me. For a moment, I'll let myself pretend that he's here because he wants me—because he was concerned—not out of guilt.
The truth claws at me, demanding to be told, no matter how hard it's going to be.
Six months of silence. Six months of letting him believe I tore us apart for someone else. But he's here. How can I look him in the eye and keep hiding? Not when I look at him and see the redness of his eyes. The pain etched into his face is because he thought I was going to die. Hell, I thought I was too. And for a moment, I wanted to—thinking it would've been easier than dealing with the demons inside me day in and day out. But I'm here.
