I sit on the edge of the hospital bed, my hands resting in my lap, my fingers fumbling with each other in that nervous habit I’ve never been able to break. It’s the thing I do when I don’t know what to say, when I don’t know what to feel.
Deniz sits beside , close enough that his shoulder brushes mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of my hospital gown. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.
His presence alone is an anchor, sothing solid and steady in a room that feels like it’s shifting around . I lean into him, just slightly, and he leans back, a small, silent reassurance that I’m not alone.
Across from us, Moon sits on the couch.
He’s leaning back against the cushions, his posture deceptively relaxed, his hands resting on his thighs. But there’s sothing different about him tonight. He isn’t looking at . He isn’t looking at Deniz.
His blue eyes are fixed sowhere on the floor, distant and unfocused, like he’s looking at sothing none of us can see. His face is blank—not the careful blankness he wears when he’s hiding sothing, but sothing deeper, sothing that looks almost like exhaustion.
The room is silent. Not the easy silence of before, when Moon and I traded barbs and I was annoyed by his presence. Not the comfortable silence of being with Deniz, where words aren’t always necessary. This is different. This silence has weight. It presses against my skin, settles in my chest, makes it hard to draw a full breath.
None of us speak. We just sit here, three people in a room that suddenly feels too small, each of us lost in our own thoughts, each of us waiting for sothing that doesn’t co.
I glance at Moon again. His gaze hasn’t shifted. He’s still staring at the floor, his jaw slack, his shoulders tense in a way that belies his casual posture.
He’s not angry. He’s not sad. He’s just... still. Too still. The stillness of soone holding themselves together by sheer force of will.
Deniz’s hand finds mine. His fingers slide between my own, warm and familiar, and he squeezes gently.
"Are you okay?" His voice is barely a whisper, ant only for .
I nod slowly, but my eyes don’t leave Moon.
Why is he so quiet?
I was ready for anger. I was ready for sarcasm, for those cutting words he wields like weapons, for the dangerous smile that always ans trouble.
I was ready for him to fill this room with his presence the way he always does, to make it impossible to think of anything but him.
But this—this silence, this distance, this strange, hollow stillness—I don’t know what to do with this.
KNOCK.... KNOCK....
The door opens.
Moon’s secretary, Kaz, steps into the room, his movents efficient, his expression carefully neutral. He adjusts his glasses, his gaze sweeping over the three of us with professional detachnt, though sothing flickers in his eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or recognition of a tension he’s too discreet to na.
"Mr. Deniz," he says, his voice even, asured. "Could you co with for a mont?"
Deniz squeezes my hand once, a brief, reassuring pressure, then lets go.
He looks at , his dark eyes soft, and I see the question there—will you be okay?—and the promise—I’ll be back.
I nod, and he follows Kaz out of the room.
The door closes behind them with a soft click, and the silence returns. But it’s different now. Heavier. Thicker. Without Deniz beside , the space between Moon and feels vast, impossible to cross.
Moon is still staring at the floor. He hasn’t moved since we sat down. His hands are loose in his lap, his shoulders curved forward slightly, his blue hair falling across his forehead. In the dim light of the hospital room, he looks younger. Softer. Fragile in a way I’ve never seen him.
I hesitate, then speak his na. "Moon."
He blinks. Slowly, like he’s surfacing from sowhere deep, sowhere dark. He lifts his head, and his blue eyes et mine.
Sothing shifts in his expression. Sothing I don’t recognize.
My voice cos out softer than I intended. "Thank you." A pause. "For taking care of ."
I glance at the empty space beside , then back at him. "You must be tired. You should go ho. Rest."
He looks at . Just looks. His face is strange, caught sowhere between emotions I can’t na. Not sad. Not angry. Not relieved. Just... blank. Empty. The face of soone who has run out of things to feel.
"Zyren..." His voice is barely a whisper, fragile as glass.
I wait. The word hangs in the air between us, waiting for others to follow, for sothing to fill the space it’s opened.
Nothing cos.
He stands. The movent is slow, deliberate, like each action requires more effort than it should. He walks to the door—not his usual confident stride, but sothing slower, heavier.
He reaches for the handle. Pauses. His hand rests on the tal, his back to , his shoulders rising and falling with a single deep breath.
Then he opens the door. He steps through. He closes it behind him.
The click of the latch echoes in the empty room.
I stare at the door, at the space where he was, at the silence he left behind.
What was that?
The question circles in my mind, unanswered. The way he looked at . The way he said my na. The way he left without a word, without a fight, without the explosion I was braced for.
I don’t know what I saw in his face. I don’t know what any of this ans.
I sit alone in the hospital room, the night pressing against the windows, the city lights flickering beyond the glass, and I have no answers.
Only questions. Only the mory of his voice saying my na, soft and strange, and the door closing behind him.
User Comments
0 comments from readers