The Truth Between Heartbeats

The calendar on the hospital wall said it was spring. Maya didn't feel it. Spring was blooming outside, trees spilling green, flowers clawing out of the earth like they were desperate to be reborn. But inside the room—inside her—everything still felt like winter.

Her fingers grazed the IV scar on her wrist. It had faded into a pale line now, a ghost of everything she'd endured. The machines had stopped beeping weeks ago. The doctors had smiled, called her "a miracle," said things like "strong recovery" and "full discharge." And yet, the heaviest part of her still hadn't healed.

It had been almost two months since the shooting. Time had passed, yes—but in fragments. In blood tests and sleepless nights and her father's trembling hands bringing her takeout that always went cold. In her mother's slow return, sitting beside her bed like she was praying to something she'd abandoned long ago.

Now she stood by the window, dressed in real clothes for the first time in weeks. Jeans. A soft pink hoodie. Shoes. The weight of normality felt strange. Her reflection in the glass didn't look like her—too pale, too hollow, too aware.

"Maya."

Her father's voice came gently from the doorway. For once, there was no bark in it. No arrogance. Just a man trying to step into the shoes of the father he should've been. Her mother stood beside him. They weren't touching, but something between them had changed. Softer edges. Fewer walls.

"You ready?" he asked.

She didn't answer right away. She looked around the room like it had become a second skin. The pale yellow walls. The whiteboard with her name. The faint scent of antiseptic and fading roses.

"No," she said honestly. "But let's go anyway."

The wheelchair felt unnecessary. She could walk. But they insisted. So she sat, hands folded tightly in her lap, while a nurse wheeled her down the hallway. It was the same corridor where they'd rushed her into surgery, her blood staining the floor, her friends screaming in the distance.

The halls were quieter now. Peaceful, even. But Maya's breath hitched anyway.

Her mom touched her shoulder. "You're safe, baby."

She didn't feel safe. Not yet. But she nodded.

As they reached the elevator, Maya turned her head sharply. "Wait," she said. "I want to see Vic."

Her father looked hesitant. "Maya—"

"I need to."

The room was darker than hers. Colder. Vic lay there, stiff and motionless, his eyes half-open but distant. Machines still buzzed quietly around him. He could talk now. He just didn't.

Maya stepped inside alone.

She stood beside him in silence for a long time. Watching. Breathing. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke.

"You should've just let me go," she said softly. "If you hated me that much, you could've just walked away."

He didn't respond. But his lip trembled.

"I gave you everything. My time. My body. My heart. And you crushed all of it like it was garbage."

Still nothing.

"I don't hate you," she added. "God, I wish I did. It would make it easier."

She stepped closer, brushing his hand even though it didn't move.

"You cheated. You lied. You treated me like I was disposable. And I still cried every night missing you."

Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn't wipe them.

"I gave you everything, Vic. Even after you ruined me, I tried to understand. I thought I did something wrong. I blamed myself. But it wasn't me."

A tear slipped from his eye.

"You're broken. But I won't be."

He blinked slowly, pain written in every twitch of his mouth.

"I forgive you," she whispered. "Because I need to be free."

Then he rasped, barely audible, "I'm sorry."

She nodded once. "I know."

When she left the room, the air felt heavier—but her chest felt lighter.

In the car, her mother reached back and took her hand. Her father drove without speaking, eyes focused but watery.

When they pulled up to the house, Maya stared. The yard was trimmed. The door was painted. The porch lights were warm.

"You changed it," she said.

Her dad cleared his throat. "We changed. Thought the house should, too."

Inside, it smelled like cinnamon and something that tried to be home. Maya wandered to her room. It was cleaner than she remembered. The posters were still there. So was her childhood stuffed rabbit, sitting on the pillow.

"I unpacked your things," her mom said from behind. "I hope that's okay."

Maya turned, nodded, then hugged her. Tight. Her mom melted into it like she'd been waiting her whole life for that moment.

Later that evening, just as the sky started to fade into violet, the doorbell rang.

Maya opened it and found Eddie standing there with a single sunflower and that nervous smile that always made her feel like the world was okay.

"Hi," he said.

She stepped outside. "Hey."

"I… uh, I have something for you."

He offered his hand. She didn't hesitate.

They drove to the edge of town, to a hill overlooking the entire skyline. Candles flickered in jars around a blanket. A small speaker played soft music. It smelled like wildflowers and hope.

She gasped. "You did all this?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "It's cheesy, I know, but—"

"No. It's perfect."

They sat on the blanket. Silence stretched between them—not awkward, but intimate.

"I thought I lost you," he said. "And I realized I've never been more afraid of anything in my life."

"I thought I lost me," she replied. "Turns out I'm stubborn."

He laughed, but it caught in his throat. "Maya, I need to say something. Maybe everything."

She nodded.

"I was angry. And jealous. And I didn't know how to be enough for someone like you. So I stayed quiet. I watched. I pulled strings trying to protect you when really I was just afraid of losing you."

"You never had to protect me," she whispered. "You just had to choose me."

"I do," he said. "I choose you now. Every version of you. The broken, the healing, the warrior."

She leaned in, forehead against his. "Then kiss me like I'm the start of your story, not the middle."

And he did.

It wasn't sweet. It was desperate. Grateful. Real.

She tasted every apology in his lips. Every late night. Every almost.

When they pulled apart, she was crying. So was he.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you more," she whispered. "But go ahead, try to catch up."

And there, under the stars, Maya finally felt it.

Not the end of her pain.

But the beginning of her life.

Eddie held her a little tighter, like letting go meant the world would crack open again.

But just as she rested her head against his shoulder, something changed.

His heartbeat—she felt it. Sharp. Fast. Uneven.

"Eddie?" she murmured, eyes narrowing. "Are you okay?"

He hesitated. One second. Two. Then he smiled. Too fast.

"Yeah. Of course."

But behind that smile… something was off.

His hand slipped from hers. He looked away. And under his breath, just low enough she almost missed it—

"I really thought I could keep this buried."

Maya turned, heart skipping. "What?"

But he was already standing, already walking ahead.

Like if he didn't keep moving, the truth would eat him alive.