Because if I do, everything under the surface will come with it.
And I don’t need that.
Not yet.
What I need is to see her.
A nurse steps out into the hallway, her gaze finding us.
“Mr. Bellandi?”
I look at her.
“Yes.”
“You can come through now.”
twenty-eight
Zach
The room is too quiet.
Not silent, there are sounds, the steady rhythm of the monitors, the soft hum of machines, the occasional shift of movement from somewhere down the hall, but everything inside this space feels muted, like the world has been turned down to something softer than it should be, like even noise knows better than to disturb her.
I stand at the foot of the bed and don’t move.
I haven’t moved properly since they brought us in here.
Not really.
Because if I do, if I step too far away or shift my focus for even a second, it feels like something might change, like I’ll miss something important, like she’ll wake up and I won’t be right here to see it.
So I stay.
I watch.
I count the rise and fall of her chest without meaning to, my eyes tracking every breath, every slight movement, every indication that she’s still here.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
The machines do most of the work for me, numbers flickering, lines rising and falling in steady rhythms that I’ve memorized without trying, and still it doesn’t feel real.
She looks too still.
Too quiet.
Too far away.
Elijah hasn’t moved at all.
He sits beside her, close enough that their arms brush, one hand wrapped around hers like he’s anchoring her there, like if he lets go she might slip somewhere he can’t follow. His thumb moves over her skin in slow, repetitive strokes that don’t seem conscious, something his body is doing on its own while everything else in him stays locked, focused entirely on her face.
He hasn’t looked away.
Not once.
