Into the Apex

The Weight of Waking

The world was a blur when Masachika woke up. His mind still foggy from the remnants of sleep, his body feeling heavier than it ever had, as though it had been split apart and reassembled again. The first few days were an agonizing fog, filled with people and machines that beeped and clicked incessantly. He couldn't remember much, only flashes—the sound of the crash, the unbearable jolt of his car slamming into the barriers, and then nothing. Just blackness.

But as the days passed and his awareness returned, so did the questions. Most pressing of all was the one that gnawed at him relentlessly, waking him in the middle of the night, lingering even in his groggy state: Where was Alya?

She was always by his side, but there were moments when she wasn't there, and in those fleeting moments, a gnawing panic would seize him. The thought of her going through this alone was something he couldn't bear.

After a few days, things started to change. The fog began to clear, and he could hold onto fragments of memory long enough to understand the weight of it all. His body felt like it was no longer his own. It was a strange feeling—out of place, like he was waking up in a world that didn't quite belong to him. His limbs were stiff, his body ached, and every movement required effort, but at least he could move. At least he was alive.

He thought about Alya constantly. Her face, her presence by his side, seemed to anchor him in this strange new world. But the more he thought about it, the more a worry bloomed in his chest. She hasn't been sleeping. He knew that much. He could see the evidence of it in the deep bags under her eyes and the way she looked at him with a mix of hope and exhaustion. Her bright spirit had dulled, weighed down by her own grief.

What's happening to her? he would wonder, his heart clenching with guilt. Why doesn't she take care of herself?

One day, he woke up to find his sister, Sumiko, sitting beside his bed, a quiet but reassuring presence. She had been silent, her eyes locked on him with an intensity that felt like a weight he couldn't shake. He felt a sense of relief to see her. He had almost forgotten what it was like to hear her voice, to see her smile.

"Masachika," she whispered softly, her voice trembling as she reached out to touch his hand. "I knew you'd come back. I knew it. You're strong." Her smile was bittersweet, though, and Masachika could see the lingering worry in her eyes.

He struggled to find words at first, his throat dry and his voice weak, but he tried, his lips barely moving. "Sumiko... You're here. I... I didn't know..."

She smiled again, brushing a lock of hair from her face, a sad kind of humor in her eyes. "You were asleep, you fool. You wouldn't know what was going on. But I came as soon as I could. I had to be here. I couldn't just stay in Japan while you were here, fighting to wake up."

Masachika tried to sit up, but the effort was too much, and his muscles protested painfully. Sumiko immediately helped him adjust the pillows behind him, her hands gentle but firm. He leaned back, closing his eyes as he took a deep, shuddering breath. He wasn't sure if it was because of the pain or the overwhelming flood of emotions he couldn't quite understand.

"Where's Alya?" he asked, his voice coming out hoarse.

"She's been told to get some sleep," Sumiko said softly, glancing toward the door as if expecting Alya to walk in at any moment. "She's been staying with you, hasn't she? Hasn't left your side. She hasn't been resting either."

Masachika's chest tightened at the mention of her. He knew how much she cared for him, but it tore at him to think that she had been going through this ordeal without taking care of herself. He reached for his sister's hand, squeezing it gently as his gaze drifted down to the thin blanket covering him.

"I need to see her," Masachika whispered urgently. "Please."

But Sumiko only shook her head, her expression softening with understanding. "She'll be fine. She needs the rest. You need to rest, too."

Masachika felt the weight of her words, but the worry for Alya's well-being gnawed at him like a hungry animal. He couldn't understand why she refused to rest, why she insisted on staying by his side when he knew she was slowly losing herself in the process.

Before Sumiko could say anything else, the door opened with a soft creak, and Alya walked in, her posture weary, her face drawn with fatigue. Her eyes locked with Masachika's, and a brief flicker of relief crossed her features, though it was quickly masked by the familiar mask of calm she had perfected in the past few weeks.

Sumiko leaned back, giving them space but shooting Alya a pointed look. Masachika didn't even have the energy to give his sister a glare in return—he was too focused on Alya. She approached him cautiously, sitting by his side, her hand gently resting on his.

"You look better," she whispered, her voice shaking slightly as her fingers brushed over his knuckles. "I was so scared, Masachika. I thought—"

"You don't have to say it," he whispered back, his voice low but full of the same urgent plea. "I need you to take care of yourself, Alya."

Her eyes softened, but she didn't say anything. She just held his hand, squeezing it gently. He could tell she hadn't been sleeping well. Her eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, and she looked as if she hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. The worry he felt only deepened.

"Please, go get some sleep," he urged, his voice strained. "I'm not going anywhere. You need to sleep."

Alya smiled softly, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She leaned forward, her forehead resting against his hand. For a moment, neither of them said anything, just finding comfort in the quiet shared between them. Finally, she lifted her head, brushing a few strands of her hair behind her ear.

"I'll rest when you're better," she said simply.

Masachika sighed, frustrated but understanding. He knew she would never listen, not while he was still here, fighting to return to her.

It wasn't long after that that Pierre Gasly arrived. The French driver stood hesitantly at the doorway of the hospital room, his eyes dark with guilt. When he stepped inside, his usual air of confidence was replaced with something quieter, almost broken.

"Masachika..." Pierre began, his voice low. He glanced at Alya briefly before walking toward the bed. "I—uh... I don't know what to say. I've been thinking about this every day since the crash. I... I hit you. It was my fault."

Masachika tried to sit up again, but this time, he found he had more strength. He held his hand out, motioning for Pierre to sit down.

"No," Masachika said firmly. "It wasn't your fault. The crash—what happened—was an accident. You couldn't have known. It's over."

But Pierre shook his head, his face a mask of regret. "No, I... I should've been able to avoid you. I keep thinking about what I could've done differently. Maybe if I'd reacted faster, you wouldn't have been hurt like this. I could've... I should've..." His voice trailed off, filled with frustration.

Alya, who had been sitting quietly beside Masachika, finally spoke. "Pierre," she said softly, her voice almost pleading, "It wasn't your fault. Please, don't carry this burden. We're just grateful he's alive."

Pierre's eyes flickered to Alya, and he nodded, his expression still heavy with guilt. He turned back to Masachika, forcing a small smile.

"I'm just glad you're awake, man," Pierre said quietly. "I couldn't even imagine what you've been through."

Masachika smiled weakly. "I've been through worse. But I'll be fine. Thank you for coming."

Pierre didn't say anything more, and after a brief exchange, he left the room, leaving Masachika to once again focus on the two people who meant everything to him.

But as he lay there, the same thoughts plagued him. Alya needs to rest. Alya needs to take care of herself. He could feel his own strength returning, but the fear of losing her, the worry that she might break before he did, consumed him more than anything else.

Please, Alya, he thought, his heart heavy with the weight of the unspoken plea. Take care of yourself.