Aomine Daiki's Infatuation. - Aomine X Reader.

The Weight of Parting Words

Disclaimer: The following content discusses themes involving illness; please be aware before proceeding.

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Rushing through the sliding glass doors of Tsubaka Hospital, the antiseptic sting of the air hits me, sharp and cold. My sneakers squeak across the polished tiles as I hurry to the reception desk, heart pounding so hard it threatens to drown out every other sound.

"Excuse me – my grandmother, Emi–" I manage, my voice raw with panic as I gulp for air.

The receptionist, a woman with sleek black hair and rectangular glasses perched on her nose, glances up from her computer. Her eyes flicker with practised calm as she scans the screen, her finger tracing the list of names.

"And what is your relation to the patient?" she asks, her tone gentle but businesslike.

"I'm her granddaughter", I reply, the words clipped, my foot tapping an anxious rhythm on the floor.

She nods, not missing a beat. "Can I have your full name and date of birth, please?" I fumble for my ID, hands trembling, and hand it over. The seconds passing unbearably as she types, the quiet hum of the waiting room amplifying my impatience.

"Thank you. She's in Room 12, second floor." She doesn't look up, already moving to the next task.

"Thank you," I blurt, already half-running toward the elevators, the room number echoing in my mind.

I jab the button repeatedly, willing the elevator to arrive faster. When the doors finally slide open with a metallic chime, I slip inside, pressing myself against the cool wall as I punch the button for the second floor. The ride is agonisingly slow, each floor passing like an eternity.

The elevator lurches to a stop. As soon as the doors begin to slide apart, I slip through the gap, barely waiting for them to open fully. The medicinal tang of the hospital air hits me again – sharp, sterile, almost suffocating. I weave through the maze of bustling nurses and anxious visitors, my footsteps echoing off the polished linoleum.

Room numbers blur past in my peripheral vision: 8, 9, 10, 11. My pulse spikes as I spot the faded "12" on a plaque beside a half-closed door. I stop short, my hand hovering above the handle, fingers trembling. Through the narrow glass pane, I catch sight of her – my grandmother, looking impossibly small beneath the harsh white light. She's propped up by a stack of pillows, her skin almost translucent against the crisp hospital sheets. Tubes snake from her arm, monitors blinking quietly at her side.

A lump builds in my throat as the memory of this morning's silence settles over me. The quiet house, her bedroom door closed, the absence of her gentle humming – it all makes sense now, the emptiness explained by the fragile figure before me.

I press my forehead gently to the cool glass, steadying my breath before pushing the door open. The hinges squeak softly, drawing her attention. Her eyes flutter open, searching, then settling on me with a faint, tired smile.

"[Y/n]?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

I force a smile, swallowing the knot in my chest. "Hey, Grandma. Sorry I took so long."

She tries to sit up straighter, wincing slightly. "You didn't have to rush, sweetheart. I'm just glad you're here."

I step closer, pulling up a chair to her bedside. "I was worried. The house felt so empty this morning – I should've checked on you sooner."

Her hand, cool and thin, reaches for mine. "You're here now. That's what matters."

I squeeze her fingers gently, blinking back tears. "I'll stay as long as you need. I promise."

She gives a soft, reassuring squeeze in return, her eyes shining with quiet strength. "Thank you, [y/n]. You always were my brave one."

The steady beep of the monitors fills the silence between us, but for the first time all day, I feel a little less alone.

Emi breaks the silence, "The doctors have been poking and prodding all morning," she says, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "But I already know what's going on. It's like last time, only... I think we both know I've used up most of my time here. I'm old, sweetheart. None of us are meant to stay forever."

Her words land with a dull ache in my chest. I try to blink away the sting in my eyes, but the tears threaten anyway. My mouth opens, searching for something – anything  – to say, but before I can, the door swings open and a nurse steps in, her uniform immaculate, clipboard tucked under one arm.

"Hello, you must be [y/n]," she says, her tone gentle, eyes kind. "The granddaughter?" I nod quickly, voice catching. "Yes, that's me. Please – can you tell me how she's doing?"  The words tumble out, brittle, desperate.

She moves to the foot of the bed, scanning her notes. "Your grandmother has a complicated infection. As you may recall, she suffered from the same infection last year that left her lungs vulnerable, and unfortunately, it's developed into pneumonia. Her immune system is very weak, which makes it difficult to fight off infections like this. I'm sorry to say that, because of her complications, the pneumonia isn't currently responding to treatment as we'd hoped. But we're doing everything we can to keep her comfortable and support her recovery."

I press my lips together, but a tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.

The nurse's expression softens. "I'm truly sorry I can't give you better news at this time. We'll keep a close eye on her. If you need anything in the meantime, just press the call button. I'll give you both a moment." She gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze before slipping out, leaving the room heavy with despair.

My grandmother squeezes my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "I'm sorry, [y/n]. I know this isn't easy."

I shake my head, voice trembling. "It's not your fault. I just... I don't know what I'll do if you don't get better."

She smiles, a bittersweet warmth in her eyes. "Life's like a game of shogi, you know. You can't take back your moves, and you can't always see what's coming. All you can do is play your best with the pieces you have. You're stronger than you think, [y/n]. When one door closes, a window opens. Promise me you'll keep looking for those open windows, no matter what."

Her eyelids flutter closed for a moment, her breathing slow and even. "You should be at school. Don't let me be the reason you skip. Basketball practice won't wait for you, and neither will life."

I start to protest, but she cuts me off, her voice firm despite its softness. "No. Go on. I'll be here when you're finished."

I stand, hesitating at the door. She calls after me, a faint smile on her lips. "Hey, [y/n]. It's not over yet. You still owe me a rematch of shogi."

A shaky laugh escapes me. "I'll win next time. You always cheat."

She waves me out, her laughter following me into the corridor. I leave, my heart weighty but a little lighter than before, carrying her words with me.