Forever, Again

Prologue

As dusk settled over the city, Dylan's figure, etched in shadow and light, was a quiet sentinel against the bustling backdrop of New York's evening sparkle. The glow from his laptop danced across his face, revealing furrows of concentration and the occasional flickers of dissatisfaction. It was 9 PM, and around him, the chaos of his apartment—a testament to his frenzied mind and solitary existence—cluttered the space. Stacks of books and papers jostled for room with coffee mugs, remnants of many a late-night endeavor.

His brown eyes, normally bright and alert, now seemed distant, clouded with the haze of unformed thoughts. His hair, tousled and unkempt, matched the disarray of his surroundings. Every so often, his fingers would spring to life, drumming out sentences in bursts of fleeting conviction, only to falter, leaving him to grimace at the screen. "Love lost, time wasted..." he wrote, his lips turning downwards as he struck the delete key, erasing the words in a wave of resignation.

The small apartment felt all the more cramped by its dual-purpose décor; his dining table now served as a makeshift desk, a clear view of the cramped kitchen just over his laptop screen. He tried again, fingers hesitating before committing to the keys. "Silent screams..." But then, with a heavy sigh, those words too disappeared, sucked into the digital void.

Just as his frustration reached a peak, a flicker from the corner of the room caught his eye. The television, ignored until now, shifted from its regular programming to a pulsating blue that cast the room in eerie light. The face of a news anchor filled the screen, her expression grave, pulling Dylan out of his literary struggle and into the immediacy of unfolding tragedy.

"Good evening, I'm Cassandra Leigh, reporting for Kepler News outside New York Presbyterian Hospital," the anchor's voice cut sharply through the apartment's silence. Dylan's fingers froze above the keyboard, his breath catching in his throat as the broadcast continued. "Tonight, we've got some heart-wrenching news about one of our own, Aliya Day, the Grammy-winning artist now fighting for her life after a serious car crash."

The camera panned slightly, revealing the chaotic flurry outside the hospital—flashing lights, urgent movements, a ballet of emergency responders. "Sources close to the scene tell us Aliya was found unconscious, her car a wreck. What appears to be a hit-and-run complicates further—police have found drugs in her system," Cassandra reported, her voice steady despite the grim news.

Dylan's heart thumped painfully in his chest. The sudden, raw intrusion of reality into his cluttered sanctuary of words and woes left him momentarily adrift. His gaze drifted back to his screen, the blinking cursor a mocking reminder of the unwritten words and unresolved emotions that tangled his thoughts.

The broadcast's harsh glare had transformed his cluttered living room into a surreal stage of a real-life drama he wished he wasn't part of. Images of twisted metal and shattered glass sprawled across an intersection splashed across the screen, the horror reflected in the faces of the onlookers blurring into anonymity under the streetlights. "Witnesses told police the other driver just took off, and now there's a citywide manhunt underway. Everyone's asking—who could have done this? The city's really on edge tonight as police keep looking," the newscaster continued, her voice threading through the growing tension in the room.

Back to Cassandra Leigh, her face somber, etched with the weight of the unfolding tragedy. "At just 28, Aliya's already a music sensation," she recounted, her words painting the picture of a life interrupted so cruelly. Dylan's heart tightened—a physical ache—as memories of Aliya surfaced unbidden: her laughter, those dimples that played on her cheeks like light on water.

"Meanwhile," Cassandra's voice cut through his reverie, "Dylan Archer, Aliya's ex-husband and a struggling author, has yet to make a public statement." The screen briefly split, showing a clip of Dylan at a book signing, his image from happier times when smiles came easier and the weight of public scrutiny was just a shadow at the edge of his life. The stark contrast between the man on the screen and the one slouched on the couch couldn't be more pronounced. Dylan's eyes darkened as he watched his own smile falter in the frozen moment of the past.

Cassandra's broadcast drew him back as she spoke of the ongoing investigation, urging anyone with information to step forward. The screen shifted to an interview with a tearful bystander, her words a soft tremor in the stillness of his apartment. "It was just so sudden, you know? One moment everything's normal, and the next, there's just... chaos."

As the camera returned to Cassandra, her professionalism softened by genuine empathy, she summarized the impact of Aliya's life and work on her fans, her voice a solemn echo in Dylan's tightening chest. "Aliya Day's vibrant spirit has resonated with fans worldwide," she said, and as she urged viewers to keep Aliya in their thoughts, Dylan's isolation felt more profound, the walls of his apartment seeming to close in with the weight of a world watching and waiting.

When the screen finally cut back to the newsroom, the click of the remote was sharp, a definitive end to the intrusion of the outside world into his personal turmoil. The TV screen went black, and Dylan stood abruptly, the room plunged into an oppressive silence. His breaths were ragged, his heart pounding as he paced the small space, each step a muted echo on the worn carpet.

The soft glow of the television flickered across Dylan's face, flashing images of Vincent—a man whose life seemed untouched by grief. Each time Vincent's smiling face appeared beside Aliya's, it felt like a personal affront, a reminder of the life Dylan had dreamed of but was now ensnared in a web of what-ifs and heartbreak.

His apartment, once a sanctuary filled with the clacks of his typewriter and the rustle of fresh pages, now lay in silent judgment. A manuscript lay abandoned on his desk, its pages curling at the edges, the words once thought profound now seeming trivial and disjointed. The fictional tragedies he had penned paled in comparison to the raw, unscripted chaos that had hijacked his reality.

With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of his regrets, Dylan reached for his jacket. His keys, once personalized with a token of 'Mr. and Mrs. Archer', now bore a simple, impersonal emblem of the American flag—a small but poignant concession to his new, unshared life. The metallic clang of the keys as they hit the countertop echoed in the empty room, a stark reminder of his solitude.

Stepping into the cool embrace of the night, the city's pulse beat around him, indifferent to the turmoil that churned within. The streets, illuminated by the harsh glare of streetlights, felt both alien and familiar. He stepped out into the biting night, the city's indifference a sharp contrast to the chaos of his inner turmoil. Each step on the cold pavement was a reminder of the cruel irony: Aliya, once a whirlwind of life, now clung to existence by a thread. His attempts to dull the pain with fleeting flings or hollow words on a page were futile. Every new paragraph penned, every meaningless encounter, only deepened his realization—some scars were too deep, the past too present to ever truly leave behind. The night air couldn't wash away his despair, nor could the endless city streets lead him far enough from his haunting memories.

AN: Hope you liked it? :)

I know it's a bit short, but I didn't think that would such a bad thing! :D