"Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I try. Fail. Try again.
"Your friend—Julian, right? He's going to be okay."
My head snaps up. "He's alive?"
"Yes. He's stable. His left hand is broken—fractured in two places. But no head trauma, no internal bleeding. He got lucky."
Lucky. The word lands like a punch.
His hand. His beautiful, talented hand that coaxes magic from piano keys, that plays melodies I can feel in my bones.
Broken.
Because of me.
"Can I see him?"
"Soon. The doctor is setting the cast now. It'll be a couple hours."
Hours.
I nod, numb.
She squeezes my shoulder. "He'll be fine. Promise."
But I don't believe her. Not really.
Time crawls. I check my phone every thirty seconds—no new messages. I open Instagram, scroll past posts I don't register, close it. Open Candy Crush, play half a level, abandon it. My leg bounces uncontrollably.
Around me, the ER hums with muted chaos. A kid crying. A couple arguing in hushed tones. The intercom crackles overhead.
I can't focus on any of it.
All I see is Julian. His face twisted in pain. His hand—broken, mangled. Blood on his knuckles. Did he try to fight back? Did Daniel hold him down? Were there others?
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to erase the images, but they multiply, each one more brutal than the last.
This is my fault.
If I'd never gone to that support group. If I'd just stayed away from him. If I'd been stronger, left Daniel sooner, handled this differently…
Julian would be home. Safe. Whole.
He'd be playing piano, fingers dancing across keys, lost in music.
Not here. Not hurt.
Not because of me.
The guilt claws at my chest, sharp and relentless.
I love him. God, I love him more than I thought possible.
Which is exactly why I should leave him.
Before Daniel destroys him completely.
