My anger flares, but I remain silent, lost in the depths of his mesmerizing eyes. "You have a knack for getting on my nerves," he says, chuckling softly.
"And you have a knack for making everything infinitely more complicated," I retort, though my v...
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Felix told me to get out, and I get why. I was yelling at the nurses, my voice loud and raw, demanding answers I couldn't even articulate. But what was I supposed to do? It's like there's molten lava coursing through my veins, burning me alive with the need to do something, anything, to make sure Han's okay. It's ridiculous, isn't it? We fight all the time, nearly every month, the kind of fights that leave us spitting venom and practically tearing each other apart. Yet here I am, unraveling at the seams because Han collapsed. No blood, no visible injuries-and still, the panic gnaws at me.
Maybe that's it, though. I've seen him hurt before. I've seen him bruised, bleeding, barely able to stand. I've seen him pushed to the brink in ways that would break most people. But I've never seen him like this. He looks... drained. His skin is pale, almost ghostly, his strength seemingly leached from his body. It terrifies me in a way I can't explain, seeing someone I've always thought of as invincible, reduced to this fragile state.
It hurts to see him like that-weak, vulnerable, when I know just how strong he is. Han, who always bounces back, who never lets anyone see when he's hurting. But this? This feels different. It feels like something's been chipping away at him from the inside, something I missed entirely.
The doctors say it's exhaustion, dehydration, malnutrition. Simple, right? Like the answer's right there, as if that should be enough to calm me down. But I can't shake the unease that's been twisting inside me since I saw him collapse. Han doesn't let himself get like this. He's reckless, sure, but he's never... careless. So why wasn't he eating? Why wasn't he sleeping? What the hell has been going on inside his head to push him to this point? And why didn't I notice sooner?
The not knowing-it's unbearable. It churns inside me, fueling this restlessness, this desperate need to fix something when I don't even know what's broken.
Felix finally convinced me to leave, said I wasn't helping by pacing around the hospital like a caged animal. So I went up to the roof, lit a cigarette in an attempt to calm down. But even with the nicotine buzzing through my system, the tightness in my chest didn't ease. It's like the distance between us was physically painful. Like every second away from him made me feel more unmoored, more desperate.
So when my phone buzzed with a call from Felix, I didn't even bother answering. Whatever he had to say, he could tell me in person, because the second I saw his name on the screen, I was already running-sprinting through the hospital halls, my heart in my throat, pounding so loud I could barely hear anything else. I couldn't stand it. The separation. The distance. The thought of being away from Han for another second longer.
I burst through the doors to his room, chest heaving, the world narrowing down to one point-him. And the sight of him, lying there, still pale, still fragile, but breathing... I swear, I almost collapse right there, the sheer force of relief knocking the breath out of me. But the panic doesn't leave. It doesn't dissipate, not entirely. Because this is Han, the stubborn, impossible force of nature I've known for years. And seeing him like this, so vulnerable, so quiet-it does something to me. It cracks something open inside, something raw and frightening, something I've been trying to ignore for too long.
