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 me, 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, something solid and steady in a room that feels like it's shifting around me. 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 something different about him tonight. He isn't looking at me. He isn't looking at Deniz.
