35
The first thing I feel is weight.
Not heavy.
Not choking.
Just... presence.
The soft kind.
Like someone pressed pause on the world and said, "Rest here. It's okay now."
The ceiling above me is still the same.
Plain. Sterile.
Hospital lighting humming faintly.
The IV still hooked to my hand.
My body still aching in that dull, distant way - like the crash has already happened, and now I'm just sorting through the rubble.
But something's different.
Someone's breathing beside me.
Slow. Warm. Familiar.
I turn my head and find him.
Luca.
Asleep.
His hoodie is gone - draped carefully over my blanket like a gift.
He's using his arm as a pillow, lips parted slightly, face softened by dreams or exhaustion.
And somehow, I know.
He never left.
Something in my chest pulls tight.
Not the kind of tight that makes you panic.
The kind that makes you wonder why it always felt like no one would choose to stay - until someone did.
His lashes flutter.
He stirs.
And when he opens his eyes, it's like the morning is trying to apologize for yesterday.
He blinks, sits up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck like he's just remembered where he is - and why.
Then his eyes land on mine.
And he freezes.
Like he's scared I'll vanish if he moves too fast.
"Hey," he whispers.
His voice is rough. Sleep-warm.
And something about that single syllable undoes me.
But I keep it together.
Barely.
"You stayed," I say.
It's stupid. Of course he did. He's right here.
But saying it feels like proof that I'm not dreaming. That maybe I didn't imagine someone wanting me enough to lose sleep.
He nods.
Looks down at my hand, at the bruised skin around the IV.
"You scared the hell out of me," he says softly.
"I scared me too."
It slips out before I can stop it.
And I mean it.
That moment in the bathroom?
The floor rushing up?
The feeling of letting go?
I didn't mean to disappear.
But I also didn't try to stop it.
"Why?" he asks gently. "Why didn't you tell me?"
And it's not accusatory.
It's aching.
Like he would've held it all if I'd just let him.
"Because I didn't want to ruin what we had."
My voice cracks.
I close my eyes.
"I thought if I said it out loud - the not-eating, the spiraling, the ache - you'd see how much of a mess I really am."
He's quiet.
Too quiet.
Then his fingers wrap around mine.
And he says:
"Senna. You matter too much to me."
Just like that.
No conditions.
No disclaimers.
No pity.
Just truth.
Plain and sharp and steady.
I break.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just soft sobs I don't even fight.
Because this isn't shame.
It's not fear.
It's the weight of being seen - and not being pushed away.
He doesn't speak.
Just holds me while I cry.
His thumb brushes under my eye like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Like I didn't tell him I loved him and then disappear inside myself.
Like I'm not some unraveling girl in a hospital bed.
"You're not broken," he says after a while.
"You're tired. And hurting. But not broken."
I nod against his shoulder.
It's all I can do.
Because if I try to talk, I'll fall apart again.
But for the first time in what feels like forever, falling apart doesn't feel like failure.
Not here.
Not with him.