Every day for a week, I stayed by Orion's side, silently hoping that his eyes would flutter open. The rhythm of the heart monitor, the soft beeping and hissing, became a strange kind of lullaby.
I spoke to him, sometimes recounting mundane details from my day, other times confessing things I'd never dared say before—my fears, my regrets, my own feelings of inadequacy. I held his hand, tracing the scars, the lines, the familiar curves, praying that somehow, somewhere, he could feel me.
When the stitches in my left hand were finally removed, Orion was transferred back to a hospital in New York. Yet even then, he remained lost in that deep, unreachable sleep.
I had told myself that was the end—that I would no longer care, that my heart had finally grown indifferent. But the world has a way of proving you wrong. I resigned from my work in Belgium, stepping into the role of acting CEO of Durnavelle Industries, all while visiting Orion daily, watching over him as he lay motionless.
Three months has passed.
Three months passed in a haze of hospital visits, board meetings, and sleepless nights. The world outside continued to move, oblivious to the storm inside me.
One afternoon, as I sat alone in my office staring at the city skyline, a memory surfaced—the place we had intended to celebrate our seven-year anniversary: Celestial Heights. I hadn't been back there since that night of heartbreak, since the anniversary that never came. A sudden longing, bittersweet and sharp, struck me. I needed to see it again, even if it was just by myself, even if it only reopened old wounds.
As the sun began to set, casting a warm amber glow across the city, I found myself at a table near the window, the restaurant nearly empty except for a few early diners.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed a couple at the next table.
The man had just gotten down on one knee. A hush fell over the room, quickly replaced by the warm, cheerful claps of the other diners. The girl's face was flushed pink, her hands flying to her mouth in surprise and delight. The ring sparkled as he slid it onto her finger, a perfect, shining promise of a future together.
The couple left the restaurant, beaming at each other, their laughter mingling with the fading sunlight streaming through the windows.
As the servers cleared their table, one of them sighed wistfully, still caught in the memory of a story from the past.
"Last time," the server murmured to the other, "a super-handsome guy reserved the entire restaurant…"
"He confirmed every detail," his colleague added, leaning in conspiratorially, "the setup, the ceremony, even the humidity."
"But in the end," the first one continued, "he and his girlfriend both didn't show. Wonder what kind of sad story that was."
I let their words hang in the air, watching as the sun finally sank completely below the horizon. The sky faded from gold to a deep indigo, the afterglow stretching across the city.
I stared at it—the lingering afterglow beyond the glass—and somehow that soft, fading light felt unbearably blinding. Silent tears slid down my face, one after another, soaking into the tablecloth without a sound. I didn't bother wiping them away. There was no point pretending anymore.
I couldn't deny it.
In this entire world, there was no one but Orion who could make me feel love and hate so violently, so purely, as if every emotion had been stripped bare and magnified. No one else could pull me apart and put me back together with the same pair of hands.
That night, I returned to the hospital.
Orion still lay there, unmoving. His features were as sharp and sculpted as ever—handsome to the point of cruelty—but he had grown thinner, his cheeks slightly hollow, his jaw more pronounced. The man who had once seemed indestructible now looked heartbreakingly fragile.
I sat beside him and stared at his face for a long time.
'Any second now,' I thought, he should open his eyes.
Those eyes that had always looked at me with restraint, with arrogance, with indifference—and sometimes, when he thought I wasn't looking, with an affection so deep it frightened me. He should wake up, look at me, pull me into his arms like he always did. Kiss me softly, as if nothing had ever gone wrong.
My throat tightened.
I opened my mouth.
My voice came out hoarse, barely louder than a breath. "Orion…"
The sound of his name echoed faintly in the room, swallowed by the steady beeping of the monitor.
"I went to Celestial Heights today," I said, my fingers tightening around the edge of the bed. "Do you know… there was a proposal there. Everyone was cheering. It was loud. Happy." I laughed softly, but it broke halfway through. "You would've hated it. You always said public displays were a waste of time."
I leaned closer, resting my forehead against the side of the bed.
"But they said someone once reserved the entire restaurant. He checked everything. Every detail." My voice trembled. "You were so meticulous. Of course it was you."
Tears dripped onto the white sheets.
"I used to think you didn't care. That you never would." I inhaled shakily. "Do you know how much I hated you for that? And how much I hated myself for staying?"
The machines continued their steady rhythm, cruelly indifferent.
"I became acting CEO," I continued, my voice quieter now. "I'm doing fine. Better than fine. You were wrong about that too." A pause. "But Orion… just because I can live without you doesn't mean I wanted to."
I reached out, hesitating for only a second before gently holding his hand. It was warm, real—and terrifyingly still.
"You always said you didn't need explanations," I whispered. "That love wasn't something you had to prove." A tear slipped from the corner of my eye. "But I needed it. I needed you."
My grip tightened, as if holding on a little harder could pull him back.
"So wake up," I said softly, almost pleading. "Wake up and explain everything properly this time. Argue with me. Even hurt me again, if you have to." My voice broke completely. "Just… don't leave me like this."
I lowered my head beside his hand, shoulders shaking.