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Raphaël and I were together for almost three years. I was twenty-six when we met, and he wasn’t much older. A large part of my life was devoted to my job at the time, and he had made the same choice. A software engineer, he had just founded his own company and worked long hours. I admired his ambition, but also found him charming, generous, and caring. He had all the qualities of the ideal man.

At least, that was what I tried to convince myself.

But as the months went by, I found myself growing more and more distant. He, on the other hand, clung to the relationship. I tried to leave him several times; our relationship lacked passion and spontaneity, and a sense of routine had crept in.

Raphaël wasn’t Vadim.

I missed my first love deeply, but couldn’t bring myself to accept it, to erase him from my memory and move on.

Everything changed when I got pregnant unexpectedly at twenty-eight. I thought the universe was sending me a sign that Raphaël was the right man for me, that my future with him was mapped out. Delighted, I prepared to become a mom. But our joy quickly evaporated when I was rushed to the ER in the middle of the night. At almost six months pregnant, I lost our baby—and, at the same time, a part of myself.

That was two years ago. Since then, everyone seems to have forgotten, having turned the page once the shock passed. But not me. The memories, the feelings, the screams, the silence, the emptiness: none of that has faded. I still think about it every day.

The pain was so intense, so unbearable, that I had no choice but to leave Raphaël. The only thing that had kept us together was that child. Losing our baby simply sealed the fate of our relationship. Some couples come out of such a tragedy stronger, seeking comfort in each other rather than losing themselves to despair, but Raphaël and I were too fragile.

Now, I’m making my way to room 113, trying to block out all these memories.

Clémentine rushes toward me in a state of pure panic.

“Alma, there you are! I thought you were never going to get here! He had an accident. The paramedics told me he was driving on the ring road. A driver cut him off. His car crashed into a tunnel, and apparently the impact was extremely violent!” She stumbles over her words, her cheeks red and hands trembling.

I pull her into my arms, horrified by what I’m hearing. She sobs against my shoulder, and I hold back my tears. I have to stay strong, for Raphaël, but also for her. They’ve always been really close. She was the one who introduced us four years ago, when I was determined to find someone, anyone, to stop people asking me, “So, when is it going to be your turn?”

And despite everything, Clémentine never held it against me for hurting him. That’s how big her heart is.

My best friend slowly calms down, then starts speaking again. “I was watching Stranger Things. They found my number in his phone—I was the last person he called. Alma, it was awful. I thought he was dead!”

“How is he?” I whisper, my voice catching.

“I was crying so hard when the doctor came to see me that I didn’t understand everything. But I remember hearing ‘head trauma’ and ‘medically induced coma.’ Apparently, he’s hooked up to tubes, and he has bruises everywhere. He must look terrible!”

“He’s going to make it, Clem. It’s going to be okay. Raphaël is a fighter.”

I pray with every fiber of my being that I’m right.

“I called his parents. They’ll be here soon,” she sobs, breaking down again.

“Can I see him?”

“Not yet, but they’ll come let us know when we can visit him. That is, if he survives…”

We stay at the hospital until the Coste family arrives: Raphaël’s parents and his two brothers. Seeing them again is painful, especially under these circumstances. But they all greet me with extraordinary kindness.

At the time, I felt guilty for disappointing them after they had welcomed me with open arms. I’d hurt their son and brother so deeply, I could no longer look them in the eye. I vanished from their lives without ever reaching out again. All I could see was my own pain, my own grief. The pain of others was simply too heavy to carry on top of my own.

Before taking Clémentine home, I promise them I’ll come back the next day. Raphaël might be better by then; he might be conscious, out of danger.

That’s all we can do: hope.

“You need to let Basile know,” Clémentine says, her face turned toward the window.

My brother and my ex stayed friends despite everything, and I know they’ve seen each other recently.

Those are the first words she’s spoken since we got into the car ten minutes ago. After wiping away her tears, she had retreated into a worrying silence.

“I’ll call him tomorrow morning.”

“Why not tonight?”