The door clicked shut behind John, and silence surged back in like a tide reclaiming the shore. The hum of the machines and the soft, steady beeping of the heart monitor were the only sounds that lingered in the sterile room. Even those felt distant now, faint echoes in the quiet aftermath.
Liam stared at the door for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the smooth, unmoving surface as if willing it to open again. As if John might suddenly reappear, tossing out one last sarcastic remark to cut through the weight in the air. But it didn't happen. The door remained shut. The space remained still.
A slow exhale escaped Liam's lips as he sank deeper into the hospital bed, the stiff pillow cradling the back of his head. His chest rose and fell with deliberate slowness, each breath more grounded than the last. His eyes still rimmed with tears, their edges red and swollen, reflecting a different kind of ache now. The kind that wasn't screaming or breaking or desperate.
It was quieter. And strangely... peaceful.
Not the kind of peace born from resolution or healing. No, this peace was fragile. Like the delicate silence that follows a storm, not because the damage is gone, but because there's nothing left to break.
And yet… in the center of that silence was a flicker. The tiniest spark of something he hadn't felt in days.
Hope.
Liam reached over to the nightstand, his fingers brushing the notepad John had left behind. It was bent at the corners, the paper a little smudged. He turned it over and stared at the line scribbled in uneven handwriting.
A Twibbler handle.
@Gamerboy115
His hand trembled slightly as he held the note, the username staring back at him like a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit… and yet somehow mattered more than it should.
A username.
That's all it was.
Just a random alias, a string of characters on a screen, probably made up years ago without a second thought.
But somehow… it felt like more.
Like a hand reaching through the dark.
Like an invitation.
An invisible bridge connecting the moment they shared in this room to a world outside of it, a world Liam wasn't sure he belonged to anymore, but one he might still have the courage to step back into.
He swallowed hard, still staring at the paper. He could hear John's voice again, softer than usual, telling him to reach out. To try.
Liam: (softly) Gamerboy115… What kind of a username is that?
His lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, the kind that flickers just beneath the surface before it fades again. He shook his head slightly, then turned his gaze upward toward the ceiling, white, empty, and quiet. The same one he had stared at for days on end.
And then, slowly, his eyes shifted toward the small bowl on his bedside table. There, half-buried in grains of rice, was his phone—still damp, still broken, still waiting.
Just like him.
Liam stared at it for a moment longer, the weight of everything that had happened crashing back down in slow motion. The fear. The loss. The guilt. The aching loneliness that had gnawed at him day after day. It all came back.
The pain was still there, sharp, raw, and unwelcome.
But now… it felt different.
Not like a noose tightening around his chest.
More like a scar. Deep, ugly, and unhealed, but survivable.
Something he could maybe, just maybe, learn to live with.
Maybe.
*******
John walked down the hospital hallway, his bruised face stiff with discomfort, the bandage across his nose tugging slightly with every breath. Each step was steady, but his body ached with the deep fatigue of everything that had happened. The hallway's brightness, the clean white walls, the faint antiseptic smell, the quiet shuffle of nurses' shoes, felt almost surreal. Like he'd stepped out of a nightmare and into a dream that didn't quite fit.
And then he saw her.
Standing beside the reception desk—rigid with tension—was Ms. Marie.
She was bundled in a thick burgundy coat, her graying hair pulled neatly beneath a gray wool scarf coiled around her neck. Her usually calm demeanor was marred by the worry etched into her face. Her eyes, wide and searching, flicked toward every passerby until they landed on him.
Ms. Marie: John?
He raised a hand and gave a tired smile.
John: (dryly) That obvious, huh?
She moved quickly toward him, her eyes instantly drawn to the bruises across his face and the bandage on his nose. Her hands twitched slightly at her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach out.
Ms. Marie: Good heavens, what happened to you?
John: (shrugging) Long story. I told the nurses I tripped. Technically… not a lie.
She didn't smile. Her brows furrowed deeper as she looked him over—every scratch, every mark. Then, with a quiet sigh, she crossed her arms, her voice firmer now.
Ms. Marie: I was surprised when you didn't show up for work this morning. Then I get a call from a number I don't recognize, and it's you—telling me you're at the hospital, using someone else's phone. You had me worried sick.
John: (sincerely) Yeah… I'm sorry about that. I couldn't use my phone—it got soaked in the water. I didn't know who else to call. I didn't mean to freak you out.
Ms. Marie: (softening) It's fine. At least you're okay." (quieter now) "But John… what really happened?
He hesitated. The hallway felt too open suddenly. Too bright for the weight pressing on his chest. He glanced toward the receptionist a few feet away, then back at her.
John: A classmate of mine… he almost drowned. I found him and pulled him out.
Ms. Marie's face froze. Her lips parted, but no words came right away. Her eyes searched his, looking for something she couldn't quite name.
Ms. Marie: …Is he…?
John: (quietly) Alive. Barely. He woke up earlier. But it was close. Really close.
A long silence passed between them. Ms. Marie's breath hitched. Her posture softened, and for a moment, she looked older—like the worry had worn her down a little more than she'd let on.
Ms. Marie: Oh my God…
John didn't say anything. His mind drifted—flashes of cold water, of the panic rising in his throat as he dragged Liam's limp body to shore, the frantic compressions, the raw ache in his chest when there was no response. And then—finally—life.
Liam lived.
And that mattered more than the bruises or the pain.
John: (quietly) He was going through a lot. More than I realized. And he thought… ending his life would be easier. I… I couldn't let him do that. I just… couldn't.
Ms. Marie lowered her gaze. The weight of his words settled heavily in the space between them. She stood still for a long moment, the hum of the hospital filling the silence.
Then she whispered, more to herself than to him:
Ms. Marie: So even kids go through problems like this…
Her voice was full of something deeper than surprise—something like sorrow.
She looked back up at him, and for a moment, she wasn't just his boss—she was simply a person trying to make sense of the pain in a world that didn't always show it.
She reached out slowly, her fingers brushing near the bandage on his nose without touching it.
Ms. Marie: And you? Are you okay?
John straightened, his hand instinctively going to the bandage. It throbbed dully beneath his touch, but he managed a small shrug.
John: I'll be fine. It's just a nose. It'll heal.
She gave him a look that wasn't quite convinced. But she didn't press. Instead, her voice softened.
Ms. Marie: John… what you did today—most people wouldn't have done it. You saved someone's life. That takes more than strength. It takes heart. You're a good kid. I may not be your mother, but… (pauses) I'm proud of you.
He blinked.
For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't breathe. Those words—simple, quiet, kind—hit harder than any punch he'd taken. Proud of you.
His mother had never said those words. Not once. Not after all the fights, not after all the days he came home bleeding or late or broken. Not even when he tried to do right by people.
But Ms. Marie just had.
And somehow… it mattered more than he expected.
John: (softly, a bit stunned) Thanks, Ms. Marie. I… I needed that.
She gave a small smile, then stepped back, her voice lifting with a trace of her usual tone.
Ms. Marie: Good. Now… (playfully stern) Let's get your medication and get out of here, kiddo.
He couldn't help it—a tired chuckle escaped his lips.
John: (muttering under his breath) Back to her usual self, huh?
*******
Liam sat upright now, the hospital blanket still folded neatly over his lap. The sterile scent of the room clung to the air, and the faint hum of fluorescent lighting buzzed above him like a whisper he couldn't quite make out. In his hands, he gently cradled a notepad—the one the nurse had left for him earlier in case he wanted to write something down. His fingers rested on its cover, unmoving, as if unsure whether to open it, unsure whether he deserved to.
Beside him, on a small plastic tray, sat his phone—its dark screen a quiet, lifeless square. It was still soaked from the river, now nestled in a shallow dish of rice in a desperate, almost laughable attempt to save it. Like trying to mend something that had already drowned.
He didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
Instead, Liam let his gaze linger on it, eyes clouded with thoughts he didn't yet have the strength to voice. A thousand images flickered across his mind, churning just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. His chest rose and fell in a practiced rhythm, but inside… inside he was anything but steady.
Emma.
Her name filled the silence like a whisper echoing down a hollow corridor, soft but deafening. Slowly, like a sunrise creeping over the edge of a dark world, memories began to emerge—vivid, intimate, achingly real.
The sound of her laugh when he made some stupid, corny joke she claimed to hate but secretly loved.
The way her hair shimmered under the setting sun during their walks home from school, each strand catching the light like golden thread.
That cold night in December when they shared a milkshake at the diner. She had scrunched her nose, claimed to despise the flavor, and then stolen another sip when he looked away.
And then—
The crash.
The blinding headlights.
The screech of tires.
The scream that never fully made it out of his throat.
The sudden, sickening silence.
The metallic taste of blood.
The sirens.
The paramedics.
That haunting moment—burned into his soul—when he saw her body, twisted and still, as they pulled her from the wreckage. Her head slumped to the side, her lips slightly parted as though she had just said something and forgotten to finish.
It had only been a month.
A single month.
And yet the pain felt as immediate and merciless as the moment it happened. There was no buffer. No numbness. Just raw, bleeding memory.
His eyes drifted downward again, to the phone beside him and the notepad on his lap. He lifted the cover slowly, hesitantly, flipping to the page where he had written down her username—Emma's old Twibbler account. The letters stared back at him like an unfinished sentence, a fragment of a conversation cut off too soon. He traced over her name with his finger, soft and slow, as if the movement might call her back to him.
Guilt. Longing. Regret.
They knotted in his throat like thorns.
Just then, the door to his hospital room burst open, slamming lightly against the rubber stopper on the wall.
Mrs. Lockwood, his mother, stumbled in—her coat still half-buttoned, scarf tangled from the frantic way she must've thrown it on. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face drawn and pale from sleepless nights and unanswered prayers. The second her eyes found Liam sitting upright in bed, her body froze—then folded in on itself with visible relief.
Mrs. Lockwood: (choking on her breath) Liam…!
She didn't hesitate. She rushed to his side, her purse slipping from her shoulder and falling forgotten to the floor. She dropped to her knees at his bedside and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close with a force born of fear and love. Her grip was tight, desperate, trembling.
She wept into his shoulder like someone who had already planned a funeral and suddenly didn't need to.
Mrs. Lockwood: (sobbing) Liam! LIAM!!
Liam: (softly) Mom…
Mrs. Lockwood: (still crying) I'm just glad that you're okay… That's all that matters. I was so scared. When I got the call…
Her voice broke. She couldn't finish. The words collapsed under the weight of the terror she had carried since the night he disappeared. Her hands cupped his face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to fall down his cheeks. Tears he didn't know he had been holding back.
His eyes drifted past her, toward the doorway.
There stood his father, tall and stoic as ever, arms crossed tightly across his chest. But the stern mask had cracked—his face visibly shaken, his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. His eyes, usually so composed, glistened with unshed tears.
And next to him stood Naya, Liam's older sister. Her hand was clasped over her mouth, eyes brimming as she stared at him with a look he would never forget, one of heartbreak and relief blended into something sacred.
And just like that, something in Liam shattered.
He had been so close to leaving them.
So close to letting go.
His breath hitched as the memories rushed in again, of the river, the biting cold, the way his limbs had gone numb as the current dragged him down. The voice in his head telling him this was the only escape. The guilt weighing him like stones in his chest.
He had chosen to give it all up while Emma was still fighting. Still clinging to life through machines and wires and sheer, stubborn strength.
And what had he done?
He had tried to abandon her.
Tried to leave everyone behind.
A sob tore from his throat, sharp and unfiltered. He clutched the notepad to his chest as if it could anchor him to this moment, this room, this second chance.
Liam: (voice cracking) I… I'm so sorry, Mom…
Mrs. Lockwood leaned back slightly, her trembling hands still on his cheeks.
Liam: (looking at each of them) I'm sorry, all of you. For what I did. For worrying you. For… for trying to disappear. I thought—I didn't think I could live with the guilt. I didn't want to feel anything anymore. I didn't know how to keep going without her.
His voice broke again, and more tears followed.
Liam: But I was wrong. I see it now. I was drowning in pain, and I let it convince me that there was no way out. But there is a way. I just wasn't strong enough to see it before.
Mrs. Lockwood pressed her forehead to his, her tears mingling with his own.
Mrs. Lockwood: (softly) Then let this be the start, sweetheart. You're still here. We're still here. We'll walk through the pain together.
Liam closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. Her warmth was a balm, and the quiet presence of his family was the lifeline he hadn't realized he needed.
He knew it wouldn't be easy. There would be more nights haunted by memory. More moments when the darkness came knocking. But there would also be mornings with music & hope. And as long as Emma was still breathing, as long as he was still breathing, there was still time to make things right.