Alice's POV
I was going to throw up.
The hospital parking lot was spinning, or maybe I was spinning, I couldn't tell anymore. My phone buzzed again in my hand—another text from the unknown number about Mom—but I couldn't read it. The words kept blurring together.
Your mother is dying. Come now. Before it's too late.
I shoved my phone in my pocket and started walking. I didn't know where I was going. Away. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but that hospital where the mother who kicked me out five years ago was supposedly dying. Anywhere but my apartment where Derek's clothes were probably still on my bedroom floor.
Rain started falling. Light at first, then harder. Cold drops that soaked through my work shirt and made my hair stick to my face. I should've gone inside. Should've gotten in my car. Should've done something other than walk down the street like a crazy person.
But my legs kept moving.
"You're boring, Alice. You're plain."
Derek's voice echoed in my head with every step.
"You were convenient."
Step.
"Too weak to leave."
Step.
I wrapped my arms around myself, but it didn't help. I was shaking—from the cold or from everything else, I didn't know. People on the sidewalk stared at me as they rushed past with umbrellas. A woman pulled her kid closer when I walked by, like sadness was contagious.
Maybe it was.
Thunder cracked above me, and I flinched. The sky was so dark it looked like night even though it was only six o'clock. Cars splashed through puddles, their headlights too bright, their horns too loud. Everything was too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too real.
This isn't happening. This can't be happening.
But it was. All of it. Derek. Lily. My mother dying. Five years of silence, and now she wanted to see me? Now, when I had nothing left?
I laughed. It came out wet and broken and a little bit insane.
A hotel loomed in front of me—The Sterling Grand, with its fancy gold doors and doorman in a perfect suit. I'd walked past it a hundred times on my way to work, never imagining I'd go inside. Places like this weren't for people like me.
But I didn't care anymore.
I pushed through the revolving door, dripping water all over their expensive marble floor. The doorman's face twitched like he wanted to stop me but couldn't figure out how. I walked past the front desk, past the fancy people in their fancy clothes, following signs that said "Lounge."
The bar was dim and quiet, all dark wood and soft piano music that made my chest hurt. Only a few people sat scattered around—businessmen on laptops, a couple whispering in the corner. Nobody looked at me. Nobody cared.
Perfect.
I slid onto a barstool, my wet clothes squeaking against the leather. The bartender—a man with kind eyes and graying hair—looked at me for a long moment. I probably looked insane. Soaked. Shaking. Broken.
"Rough day?" he asked gently.
I almost cried right there. "Something like that."
"What can I get you?"
"I don't know." My voice cracked. "I've never... I don't drink."
He nodded slowly, like this made perfect sense. "Then let's start simple. Trust me?"
I didn't trust anyone anymore. But I nodded anyway.
He made me something clear and fizzy with lime. It tasted sweet and burned going down. I drank it too fast, desperate to feel anything other than this crushing weight on my chest.
"Slow down," the bartender warned. "That one's stronger than it tastes."
Too late. The warmth was already spreading through my stomach, fuzzy and strange. I ordered another one.
Then another.
The room got softer around the edges. The pain in my chest didn't go away, but it felt further away somehow, like it was happening to someone else. I pulled out my phone with clumsy fingers and stared at the texts.
Derek: Stop being dramatic. We can talk about this like adults.
Lily: You're making this a bigger deal than it needs to be.
The unknown number: Your mother doesn't have much time. Please come.
I wanted to throw my phone across the room. I wanted to scream. I wanted to disappear.
Instead, I ordered another drink.
"Maybe that's enough," the bartender said carefully.
"It's not." My words were slurring together. "It's not even close to enough."
I felt him more than saw him—someone sitting two stools away from me. Male. Tall. Alone. He ordered whiskey in a voice that sounded as tired as I felt.
I shouldn't have looked. Should've kept my eyes on my drink. But I turned my head, and—
Oh.
He was beautiful. Devastatingly, unfairly beautiful. Sharp jaw. Dark hair that fell across his forehead. Golden-brown eyes that looked haunted. He wore an expensive suit, but his tie was loose and his top button undone, like he'd given up halfway through the day.
He caught me staring and something flickered across his face. Not interest. Not pity. Just... recognition. Like he saw the same broken thing in me that I felt.
"Rough day?" he asked, echoing the bartender's words.
I laughed—that same broken, crazy sound from before. "You could say that."
"Me too." He raised his glass to me. "To rough days."
I raised mine back. "To rough days."
We drank.
Silence settled between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. He didn't ask me what was wrong. Didn't try to fix anything. He just sat there, drinking his whiskey, looking as lost as I felt.
"Someone broke your heart," he said after a while. It wasn't a question.
"How'd you know?"
"You're drinking like someone trying to forget. I recognize the look." He turned to face me fully. "What did he do?"
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was because he was a stranger I'd never see again. Maybe I was just so tired of holding it all inside.
So I told him.
Everything. Derek. Lily. The things they said. How long they'd been lying. How stupid I was for not seeing it. The words poured out of me like water from a broken dam, messy and unstoppable.
He listened to every word.
"You're not stupid," he said when I finally finished. His voice was fierce. "You're not boring or plain or any of those things he said. He's the idiot for not seeing what he had."
"You don't know me." I wiped my eyes, surprised to find tears. When did I start crying?
"I know enough." He moved one stool closer. "I know you loved someone who didn't deserve it. I know you're here, trying to hold yourself together while your world falls apart. That's not weakness. That's strength."
I stared at him. Nobody had ever talked to me like that before. Like I mattered. Like I was worth something.
"Why are you here?" I asked. "What's your rough day?"
His jaw tightened. For a second, I thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "Today's the anniversary of the day I lost everything that mattered. Six years ago. I come here every year to remember."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He finished his whiskey. "Some pain doesn't fade. You just learn to carry it."
We talked for hours—or maybe minutes, time felt weird and stretchy. He told me about losing his parents. I told him about my mother's text. He said I should go see her. I said she didn't deserve it. He said maybe it wasn't about what she deserved.
"People are complicated," he said softly. "Sometimes they hurt us because they're hurting. Sometimes they push us away because they're scared. Sometimes they wait until it's almost too late to say the things they should've said all along."
"Is that why you're here? Saying things too late?"
"Maybe." His eyes met mine, and something passed between us—something electric and terrifying and real. "Or maybe I'm here so I could meet you."
My breath caught.
He reached out slowly, giving me time to pull away. His fingers brushed my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn't know was there. His touch was warm. Gentle. It made my chest ache in a completely different way.
"You deserve better than what he gave you," he whispered. "You deserve someone who sees you."
"You see me?" The question came out small. Broken.
"Yes." He leaned closer. "I see you, Alice."
Wait.
I never told him my name.
My heart stopped. The room tilted. "How do you—"
His phone rang, shattering the moment. He pulled back, blinking like he was waking from a dream. He looked at the screen and his whole face changed—got hard and cold and closed off.
"I have to take this," he said, his voice completely different now. Professional. Distant. He stood, putting distance between us. "Excuse me."
He walked away, phone pressed to his ear, and I sat there frozen.
I never told him my name.
My fuzzy brain tried to make sense of it. Had I told him? Had the bartender said it? No. No, I definitely hadn't—
The bartender leaned over the counter. "Miss? Your phone's ringing."
I looked down. Seven missed calls from the unknown number. Now an eighth was coming through.
My hands shook as I answered. "Hello?"
"Alice Chen?" A woman's voice, crisp and professional. "This is Dr. Sarah Martinez from Mercy General Hospital. You need to come now. Your mother is asking for you. She's... we don't have much time. Please hurry."
The call ended.
I turned to find the handsome stranger, to tell him I had to go, to ask him how he knew my name
He was gone.
The barstool where he'd been sitting was empty. His whiskey glass was gone. The bartender was helping another customer like nothing had happened.
"Wait," I called out, stumbling off my stool. "The man who was sitting there—where did he go?"
The bartender looked confused. "What man?"
"The one in the suit! Dark hair, gold eyes, drinking whiskey—"
"Miss, you've been sitting alone all night."
No. No, that was impossible. He was real. He talked to me. He touched my face. He knew my name.
He knew my name.
My phone buzzed. A text from the same unknown number, but this time there was a photo attached.
I opened it with shaking hands.
It was a hospital room. My mother in the bed, tubes and wires everywhere. But that wasn't what made my blood run cold.
Standing beside her bed, his hand on her shoulder, wearing that same expensive suit—
Was him.
The stranger from the bar.
The text below the photo said: She's been waiting for you. We both have.