34

Hospitals are too clean to feel human.

Senna's in a bed that's too white, under lights that are too harsh, and I'm in a chair that's designed to punish people for caring.

But I'm still here.

I haven't moved in hours.

I don't plan to.

She's sleeping. Sort of.

Her legs twitch sometimes.

Her jaw tenses like she's grinding her teeth.

Every now and then, her fingers curl in the blankets like she's gripping something - or trying not to fall off the edge of something else.

When the nurse checked her IV earlier, she said something like,

"She's dehydrated. Underweight. Her body's in recovery mode."

Recovery mode.

God, I wish her heart could be, too.

I study her face like I'm trying to memorize it better. Like the way she looked under cafeteria lights wasn't enough. Like I'm afraid if I look away, she'll disappear.

Even here, even now, she's beautiful.

Not in a shiny, lipglossed way. Not like the girls who post mirror selfies with the right caption and light.

Senna's beautiful like thunder.

Like a storm you hear before you see it.

But right now, she's quiet.

And fading.

And I hate it.

When I touch her hand, it's cold.

I rub small circles on her knuckles with my thumb.

I whisper,

"You didn't deserve this. Any of it."

She doesn't stir.

Maybe that's the part that scares me most.

I think back to a week ago - when she laughed so hard at Bear's joke she actually snorted. She tried to hide it behind a pillow, but I heard it.

That sound has been stuck in my chest since.

And tonight, I'd give anything to hear it again.

I scroll through my phone just to feel something.

There's a meme from Egypt in the group chat she made me join called "Senna's Fan Club."

It's a cat with sunglasses and the caption:

"Don't die. You're too hot for that."

My throat tightens.

Because if they knew - really knew - where Senna is tonight, they'd break.

They think she's invincible.

But even stars fall.

Even the strongest burn out.

Around 2:47 a.m., she shifts.

Breathes fast.

Murmurs something in her sleep that sounds like "don't touch me."

My spine goes rigid.

Flashbacks hit hard and fast - the field trip, the locker room, the aftermath.

I want to reach for her.

But I don't.

Not yet.

Instead, I whisper,

"It's me. It's Luca. You're safe."

Her brows relax just barely.

I stay silent after that.

Because sometimes silence is safer than sound.

Eventually, I pull off my hoodie and drape it over her blanket.

She always said it smelled like pinewood and cinnamon - "like the cabin in a book nobody ever finishes," she once joked.

I want her to have something soft tonight.

Something that isn't needles and beeping and cold.

I don't mean to fall asleep.

But I do.

On the edge of the hospital mattress, one arm over the pillow, my head beside hers, close but not touching.

If anyone asks why I'm here, I won't say it's because I'm in love with her.

I'll say:

"Because she stayed when I didn't know how to ask."

"Because her silence was louder than anyone else's words."

"Because she's Senna."

But I'll still be here.

Because I don't want a version of life where she's not.