Keifer's POV:
One week and two days.
That's how long it had been since I'd heard her voice. Nine days of existing in the suffocating silence of Room 402. I hadn't left her side—not for the cafeteria, not for sleep, not even when the nurses told me I looked like a walking corpse myself.
The only time I moved was yesterday, when Yuri practically dragged me to the hospital gym showers because the smell of my own guilt and sweat was becoming too much. Even then, I ran back so fast I was still dripping water onto the linoleum floor, terrified that she might wake up and find herself alone.
I sat in the same hard plastic chair, my hand hovering just inches from hers. I was afraid to touch her too hard. Her left leg was encased in a heavy, unforgiving cast—the doctors said the bone had shattered on impact. It would be a long time before she could walk without pain, if she could walk at all.
Suddenly, the rhythm of the monitor changed.
The steady beep... beep... spiked into a frantic, jagged pace. Her eyelashes fluttered, casting long shadows on her pale cheeks.
"Jay?" I whispered, my heart leaping into my throat. "Jay, I'm here."
Her eyes opened slowly. But there was no relief in them. There was no "Where am I?" or a soft smile of recognition.
She looked at me, and her eyes were like shattered glass—cold, sharp, and empty. She looked at her leg, then at the IV tubes, and then she simply stared at the ceiling.
"Jay Jay, talk to me," I pleaded, reaching for her hand.
She flinched. It wasn't a big movement, but it felt like a slap. She pulled her hand away, tucking it under the thin hospital blanket. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just looked... dead while still breathing.
The doctor came in a few minutes later to check her vitals. He asked her to try and sit up.
I moved to help her, but she turned her face toward the window, her jaw tight. When she tried to shift her weight to pull herself up, a gasp of pure agony escaped her lips. Her broken leg was a dead weight, and the effort left her shaking and pale.
"I can't," she whispered. It was the first time she had spoken, and her voice was a ghost of what it used to be. No life. No color. Just a flat, depressed tone that broke my soul into a million pieces.
The doctor tried to encourage her, mentioning physical therapy, but she just closed her eyes again.
"Jay, look at me," I said once the doctor left.
She didn't turn. "Leave, Keifer."
"I'm stay—"
"Leave," she repeated, a single tear finally escaping and rolling into her ear. "You got what you wanted. You finished the plan. Now just... leave me with what's left of me."
I realized then that the car hadn't just broken her bones. It had extinguished the light behind her eyes. My cheerful, vibrant Jay was gone, replaced by a girl who looked like she never wanted to smile again.