The sun was warm, spilling gold across the park.
The grass was still wet from the morning dew, cool under my bare feet as I ran after Ken.
He laughed, that easy, rich laugh that made the world shrink until it was just him and me.
"Catch me if you can!" he shouted, dashing toward the swing set.
I chased him, heart pounding, lungs burning, but a thrill surged through me that I hadn't felt in years.
Here, there was no stage, no cameras, no fans, only us, only laughter, only the simple pulse of life.
Ken spun around, hair catching the sunlight, eyes bright and alive.
He grabbed my hand and twirled me around, both of us collapsing onto the grass in a fit of giggles.
I looked at him then, lying there, chest rising and falling with laughter, and I thought: I could live in this moment forever.
For hours, we played like children.
Frisbees flew through the air, our laughter echoing between the trees.
We ran, we stumbled, we chased and teased, our hands entwined more times than I could count.
Time didn't exist here.
Only Ken.
Only us.
And just as I was about to lean into him, to press my lips against his in a lazy, contented kiss…
He vanished.
Not slowly, not naturally, like a shadow dissolving in sunlight.
One second, he was there, his hand brushing mine, the warmth of his laugh in the air. The next, nothing.
I froze, heart hammering.
"Ken?" I called.
No reply.
I scrambled to my feet, scanning the park.
The swings swayed lazily, a Frisbee rolled to a stop at my feet, children played in the distance, and the air smelled of grass and sunlight.
But he was gone.
Impossible.
I ran toward the benches, toward the small pond where we'd thrown stones, toward the little grove of trees where we had collapsed laughing, but he wasn't there.
"Ken!" My voice cracked. My hands shook as panic clawed its way up my chest.
I ran through the park, calling his name, desperate, hysterical.
I checked behind every tree, under the slides, near the fountain.
Nothing.
He can't just disappear.
I stopped, gasping, hands trembling, the world tilting beneath me.
The air around me thickened.
The colors of the park, the grass, the sky, everything flickered, like a film skipping frames.
Then the world shifted entirely.
—
I woke to beeping machines.
White walls.
The sterile smell of antiseptic.
A hospital room.
My head felt heavy, my chest tight, my mind fogged.
And in front of me… were them.
My parents.
My manager.
My personal assistant.
"Ysabelle?" my mother's voice cracked, eyes wide.
I blinked. "Ken?" My throat was dry, raw.
My father shook his head. "Who, dear?"
"Ken. My boyfriend. He… he was with me. In the park. Where is he?"
Their faces froze, confusion written on every line.
"Park?" my manager said slowly. "What park?"
I opened my mouth, trying to explain, to find the words, but nothing made sense anymore.
"Ysabelle… you've been in a coma for three months," my mother said gently. "Since the incident on stage."
"The… coma?" My voice barely rose above a whisper. "What… what incident?"
"You collapsed while performing," my manager said, folding her arms, face tense. "You fainted on stage. You were rushed here. It's been months. No one could wake you."
I shook my head violently. "No! That's… that's not right. I was in the park. With Ken. We were… together."
Her eyes softened, but the confusion in them made the world tilt even more.
"Who… who is Ken?" my manager asked cautiously.
"My… my boyfriend! Ken! My boyfriend, Ken!" My voice broke. I grabbed at them, pleading. "He was right there! We were together!"
They exchanged looks.
"No one knows a Ken," my PA said, shaking her head slowly. "You collapsed in front of thousands of people. You… you were performing."
"Performing? Stage?" My mind screamed.
No! That's not real! That's not what happened!
I felt dizzy.
The edges of the room spun.
"I was… in the park. With Ken. We were just… laughing, playing… together. Then… then he disappeared, and I—"
Tears streamed down my face.
I couldn't stop them.
My hands shook. "I don't understand. Where is he? Where's Ken?"
They looked at each other helplessly.
"He doesn't exist, Ysabelle," my father said quietly. "You've… you've been dreaming."
"No! He's real! He was real!" I shouted, voice cracking, raw with panic.
My mind clawed at fragments of memories, his laugh, the warmth of his hand, the sun on his hair, the playful glint in his eyes.
It wasn't a dream.
It can't be.
"But… I was with him. Right before I collapsed. Didn't anyone see him?" I asked, voice trembling.
They shook their heads, silence heavy around me.
"He's not here. He's… not real, Ysabelle. You were in a coma. We were all… hoping you'd wake up."
My stomach lurched.
Coma.
Three months.
Stage.
Performing.
Everything I remembered… the park, Ken, our laughter….
"I—" I swallowed, voice barely audible. "Then… the park. He was with me in the park. Right before I collapsed."
My manager stepped forward, gentle but firm. "Ysabelle… there's no Ken. No park. You were performing. That's all."
The world tilted again.
My vision blurred.
"Ken… Ken…" I whispered, crawling toward the bed's edge, clutching at the thin sheet. "Where are you?"