My steps are a frantic, echoing tattoo on the linoleum, cutting through the low hum of hospital noise—the distant pages, the squeak of gurney wheels, the murmur of worried families. I don’t see any of them. I have a single, laser-focused target.
I skid to a stop at the main reception desk, my breathing already uneven.
"Which floor for Mr. David Hart?" The words are all urgency, no preamble.
The nurse behind the desk looks up, her gaze taking in my expensive, coffee-stained suit, my disheveled hair, the wildness in my eyes.
"Are you a relative? Or a friend?"
I freeze for a second. What am I? His boss? The man who misread his pain as personal rejection?
I hesitate for a heartbeat. Then, quietly, "A friend."
Her eyes narrow slightly, a professional assessing a potential disturbance.
"May I see so ID, sir?"
I don’t argue. I nod, patting my coat pockets with clumsy haste before pulling out my wallet. I thrust my driver’s license at her. She takes it, her eyes flicking from the photo to my face and back down.
I see the mont she registers the na. Kael. Her expression shifts, curiosity sharpening into sothing more guarded. The Kael na opens doors, but it also raises walls.
"Nineteenth floor," she says finally, her voice carefully neutral. She hands the ID back.
"Room 890."
I snatch it, a muttered "thanks" already lost as I’m turning away. The elevator bank ahead is a cluster of people—visitors with flowers, orderlies with carts, all waiting. The lights above the doors show cars stopping on every floor on their slow ascent.
No ti.
My gaze darts to the heavy, gray door marked STAIRS. Without another thought, I shove it open.
The concrete stairwell is a stark, echoey cylinder, slling of antiseptic and cold dust. I don’t hesitate. I take the steps two, sotis three at a ti, my dress shoes slipping on the edges, the sound of my own ragged breath and pounding footsteps filling the hollow space.
Nineteen floors. The numbers blur on the landings— 5,8,12.
Each flight is a penance. For my ignorance. For my selfish assumptions. For every second I spent wallowing in my own misplaced hurt while he was here, bearing this alone.
The physical burn in my legs is nothing compared to the fierce, clawing need to get to him. To see him. To let him know, in whatever broken way I can, that he isn’t alone.
Finally, the number 19 is sared on the wall in faded paint. I burst through the stairwell door into the hushed, antiseptic calm of the cardiac floor. My lungs are on fire, my shirt plastered to my skin with sweat and old coffee. I ignore the curious glances from nurses, my eyes scanning room numbers.
885... 887...
890.
Finally, the stark number 890 stares back at from a door in the hushed hallway. I stop, chest heaving, the air burning in my lungs from the climb.
I knock—a soft, tentative sound that feels absurd in the wake of my frantic sprint.
A mont passes. Then the door opens.
Deniz stands there.
His eyes widen, pure shock wiping the exhaustion from his face. He takes in—the wild silver hair, the coffee stain blooming across my chest like a dark bruise, the breathlessness, the sheer, utter ss of .
Before he can form a word, before the professional "sir" can leave his lips, I move.
I step forward and pull him into a hug. It’s not gentle. My arms lock around him, pulling him tight against my chest, my grip desperate. I can feel the startled hamr of his heart against mine.
My voice is a raw, trembling thing buried in the fabric of his shirt.
"Why didn’t you tell ? Why...?"
Deniz goes completely still in my arms, a statue of shock. I can feel the rapid flutter of his pulse where my cheek presses against his neck.
"Sir..." he breathes, the title a fragile, automatic protest.
"Shut up," I murmur, the words muffled but fierce. He falls silent instantly.
My grip tightens, my voice a low, angry, heartbroken complaint.
"I thought you accepted as your friend. But you didn’t. You hid this from like I’m so... so outsider. I’m so angry. At you. And at myself. I couldn’t understand your silence. I thought you..."
I stop myself, the unfinished sentence hanging—I thought you were pushing away for soone else.
Deniz pushes back gently, creating a sliver of space between us. His gaze searches my face, confused, vulnerable.
"What did you think?"
My cheeks fla. I look away, then back at him, my expression a mix of anger and hurt that probably looks ridiculously childish.
"Nothing. First, you tell . Why did you hide this?"
He looks down, a familiar hesitation.
"I didn’t want to worry you. You have the company, Mr. Zyke... you have enough burdens. I didn’t want to be another one."
I stare at him. His eyes are red-rimd, and he swallows hard, the motion betraying the tears he’s fighting back.
Before he can say another word, I reach up. My hands cup his face, my palms cool against his warm skin, forcing his gaze up to et mine. He goes still again, his eyes widening at the intimacy of the hold.
"Deniz," I say, my voice dropping, intense and low.
"You are not a burden. When I said we’re friends, I ant it. Can’t you trust ? Can’t you just... share this with ?"
We’re locked like that—my hands on his face, his eyes searching mine, the world narrowed to this charged, silent question in a sterile hospital hallway.l
Then, a sound shatters the mont.
A dry, deliberate cough from inside the room.
Fake cough...
My head whips toward the sound. Deniz’s father is lying in the hospital bed, his eyes—kind, tired, and far too observant—fixed directly on us.
I snatch my hands back from Deniz’s face as if burned, instantly looking down, a wave of scalding heat rushing up my neck.
God.
First impression.
Coffee-stained, disheveled... and manhandling his son in the doorway.
Deniz blinks, flustered, the mont shattering between us.
"Ah... please. Co in. Sit."
I nod, mortified, and step into the room. The air slls like antiseptic and quiet worry.
This is so, so embarrassing.
User Comments
0 comments from readers