I couldn't tell how much time had passed. The light hadn't changed.
I lay with my gaze on the overhead light — constant brightness, white and even, not too strong and not too dim, falling across every corner of the room without casting a shadow. Flattening everything to the same plane. This was what hospitals were, I realised — places where time stretched out until there was nothing to measure it against. No one walking past outside, no shifting sounds, no signal telling you what hour it was. Just the light, and the monitor's steady sound, and the flat white room.
I used to think doing nothing was a relief. I didn't think that anymore.
I turned my head and looked at the room's contents again. The flowers were where they'd been — no new petals down, leaves unchanged. The water glass had been refilled; there were fresh droplets on the inside of the glass, meaning someone had been in while I was asleep. I hadn't heard them. I didn't know when.
A light knock at the door, and then it opened without waiting for an answer.
Ashly put her head in first. Her gaze swept the room quickly, as if confirming something, then found my face — and for a clear, visible moment she went still. Then her eyes lit up.
"You're awake!"
She came in fast, moving the way she did when something had caught her off guard, carrying a bunch of orange flowers — a much brighter colour than the ones already on the table. "When did you wake up? I was literally just thinking — if you still weren't up, I'd stay here and wait—" She stopped herself mid-sentence, as if catching the speed, gave a small laugh, and set the flowers on the table. "You actually scared me."
I watched her. Her expression was direct — the surprise, the worry, the relief that hadn't quite finished landing. There was no performance in it. Just someone who'd been genuinely frightened and was genuinely glad.
"How long was I out?" I asked.
"Three days," she said. "Three full days."
Three days.
The number sat in my mind for a moment, not quite becoming real. Like something described about someone else. But my body was genuinely lying in this bed, the needle marks were genuinely on the back of my hand, my throat was genuinely still carrying that dry, scraped feeling. Three days.
"Do you know how I ended up here?"
She came and sat in the chair beside the bed, her bag in her lap. "I had no idea at first. You weren't at school that day — I thought you were just sick, I didn't think much of it. Then after school I went to your place to check on you, and your dad was there, and he told me you were in hospital. I genuinely didn't believe him."
"What did he say?"
"That you were at a friend's house, playing some kind of new gaming device, and it malfunctioned. You were already unconscious when they brought you in." She frowned slightly. "What kind of gaming device does that? Three days of unconsciousness?"
I paused, looked at her.
"It was an early access thing. Not officially released yet," I said.
"Oh." She nodded, but kept frowning. "Still. Extremely dangerous. Giving people access to something not released and having this happen—"
"It already happened," I said.
She paused, then laughed. "Fair enough. You've still got a sense of humour, so you're definitely okay."
I laughed slightly too. She scooted her chair closer and dug something out of her bag, setting it on the beside table. A small packet of soft sweets. "Brought some things. Hospital food is terrible — take the edge off." Then she remembered something: "Oh, if there's anything specific you want, I can go get it. There are some decent places nearby."
I thought for a second. "Does anywhere do strawberry flavour?"
"As it happens," she said, pulling a second item from her bag, "I bought one on the way through the convenience store downstairs. Strawberry. Consider it a lucky guess."
She held it out. I took it and looked — my usual brand.
"Good luck," I said.
"I know," she said, and smiled, not thinking anything of it.
I set it on my lap. Didn't think anything of it either.
She stayed a while, filling the time with things from school — a classmate's exam blunder, a teacher who'd suddenly become very strict, one topic leading to the next, light and casual, the way conversations in corridors went. I listened, replied when I needed to, my body still heavy, but something in my chest looser.
Before she left, she stood and adjusted her bag. "Once you're out, we're getting a proper meal. You choose where."
"That Japanese place we never made it to?"
"Actually," she said, "they just released a new menu. I've been wanting to try it."
The door closed behind her and the room went quiet again.
I leaned back against the pillow and looked at the line of light along the curtain edge, slowly dimming.
Strawberry flavour — my usual brand. The Japanese restaurant — she'd been wanting to go too. Both times: exactly right. I sat with it for a moment, then walked myself through it: Ashly was coming from the direction of the convenience store, grabbed something on the way, ended up with strawberry — that happens every day. The Japanese restaurant had a new menu, we'd talked about going before, of course she'd want to try it. Friends who know each other well end up wanting the same things. That's ordinary. That's normal.
I worked through all of it. Then I filed it.
The light at the curtain edge had gone completely dark. Evening had come. I set down what was left of the sweets, turned onto my side, and closed my eyes.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, two words surfaced in my mind — quiet, without context.
Just right.
Then I was asleep.