I stepped out of my apartment, lighter in hand, the silver glint catching the dying light.
My fingers were pale, thinner than I remembered.
I hadn't eaten anything decent in days, just coffee, cigarettes, and silence.
The moment the flame touched the cigarette, I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke twist in the air.
It was the only thing that still felt familiar, the ritual I couldn't quit.
For a while, I just stood there, leaning against the railing, staring at nothing.
My mind was a blank space filled with too many thoughts.
The kind that echoed even when you tried not to listen.
Everything felt heavier lately, the quiet, the mornings, the empty hours in between.
I tilted my head back, closing my eyes, letting the smoke burn its way out of me.
Then it hit me, that sudden pull in my chest, sharp and hollow at the same time.
The world tilted, just slightly. The light dimmed.
My fingers slipped.
The cigarette fell, ember dying against the wood.
I tried to breathe, but my lungs refused.
My knees weakened.
My heartbeat was too loud, then not at all.
And then….. nothing.
Just darkness.
A familiar, quiet kind of nothing.
—
When I opened my eyes, everything was white.
The air smelled like antiseptic and metal.
A faint beeping sound echoed somewhere near my head.
Hospital.
I blinked slowly, my vision adjusting.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar, the light too harsh.
I moved slightly, wincing at the sting in my arm, an IV line, taped neatly to my skin.
Then I saw it.
A shadow by the door.
Still.
Familiar.
Ken.
He stood there, hands in his pockets, hair slightly messy, his white coat unbuttoned.
His expression was unreadable, a mix of calm and quiet worry.
When he noticed I was awake, he straightened, his voice soft but steady. "Hey. You're awake."
I stared at him for a moment, my throat dry. "What happened?"
"You fainted," he said simply, walking closer. "Outside your apartment. I was just coming back from the clinic when I saw you. Lucky timing, I guess."
I looked away. "Lucky," I repeated, my tone flat.
He pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down, his gaze assessing me with the kind of precision only a doctor could have. "You haven't been eating, have you?"
I didn't answer.
He sighed quietly. "Your blood sugar was low. Dehydration too. I'm guessing stress, maybe lack of sleep."
I turned my head toward the window.
The curtain swayed gently, revealing a glimpse of the evening sky. "You make it sound like I'm dying."
"You're not," he said. "But you're not living right either."
That earned him a sharp glance from me. "You don't even know me."
He met my eyes without flinching. "Maybe not. But I know what it looks like when someone's trying to disappear."
Silence.
He leaned back in his chair, his expression softening. "You're strong. I can see that. But even strong people forget to take care of themselves."
I hated how calm his voice was.
How it made something in my chest shift, just slightly, enough to hurt.
"I didn't ask for your concern," I said finally.
"I know," he replied. "You don't have to."
He stood, adjusting his coat. "You'll be fine. Just rest for tonight. I'll check in later to make sure your vitals are stable."
"Don't bother."
He smiled faintly. "Too late for that."
And just like that, he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway until only the quiet hum of machines remained.
I stared at the door long after he left.
Then I turned my gaze to the ceiling.
The light flickered slightly, the steady beeping matching the rhythm of my heart.
I should've felt grateful.
Someone had helped me.
Saved me, even.
But all I felt was anger at myself, at him, at the weakness I thought I'd buried long ago.
I closed my eyes and whispered under my breath, "I don't need saving."
But even as I said it, my chest ached with something I didn't want to name.