Ryan's POV
The hospital was a loud place, a place of constant movement. But to Ryan, it had never felt more quiet, more still.
He felt like he was the one fixed point in a body of constant motion. Like he had somehow been turned into a statue while the rest of the world carried on without a care.
In his now bandaged hands, he held a tar black cup of coffee that had long gone cold. Not that the temperature mattered, he had never tasted it while it had still been hot. Even now that it was cold, he did not care for it. He was simply holding it for the sake of holding on to something. He barely even noticed that it was there, but it served its purpose. A part of him was worried that if he let it go, he'd undo his bandages and start picking at his wounds just to feel…something.
His gaze was fixed on the room directly in front of him. Ryan tried to look away, but could not seem to turn his head.
