The phone on my desk didn’t ring; it screamed.

The sound sliced through the quiet hum of the design studio, jarring in the late-night silence. I blinked, the blue light of my monitor burning ghost images into my retinas. 11:42 PM.

"Hello?" My voice was thick with fatigue.

"Is this Ava Miller?"

"Yes."

"This is St. Jude’s Emergency Department. We have a Nina Clarke here. She’s been in a car accident."

The world tilted. The air in the room seemed to vanish, sucked out by a giant, invisible lung.

"Is she... is she okay?"

"You need to come. Now."

The line went dead.

I didn't remember grabbing my bag. I didn't remember the elevator ride down or the cool night air hitting my face as I burst onto the street. My brain had short-circuited, repeating a single, frantic loop: *Not Nina. Not Nina. Anyone but Nina.*

Nina was the constant. The sun in my solar system. We had shared bathwater as toddlers, secrets as teenagers, and a shoebox apartment as broke college students. She was the one who pulled me out of my shell, who laughed loud enough for both of us. She was invincible.

I flagged a taxi, my hands shaking so violently I dropped my phone twice.

"St. Jude’s," I choked out. "Please. Fast."

The city outside the window was a blur of neon streaks, meaningless and cruel in its vibrancy. *Car accident.* The words felt foreign, like jagged stones in my mouth. How? She was just going to pick up dinner. She was just...

*Please, God. Take anything. Take everything. Just don't take her.*

***

The hospital smelled of bleach and old coffee—the scent of bad news.

I sprinted past the reception, ignoring the calls behind me, guided by the terrifying logic of nightmares. The surgical wing was quiet, the linoleum floor stretching out endlessly white and sterile under the humming fluorescent lights.

I saw the sign: **SURGERY IN PROGRESS**. The red light above the double doors was glowing.

It was an angry, unblinking eye.

I stopped, my breath hitching in my chest like a sob caught in a throat too tight to let it out. I pressed my back against the cold wall, sliding down until my knees hit the floor.

Wait. Just wait.

Time dissolved. It could have been minutes; it could have been years. Every time the automatic doors hissed open down the hall, my head snapped up, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. *Let it be okay. Let her walk out complaining about the other driver. Let her laugh at me for crying.*

I hugged my knees, staring at the scuff marks on the opposite wall. Memories flickered, unbidden and vivid. Nina teaching me how to apply eyeliner. Nina holding my hair back when I had the flu. Nina pushing me toward Noah two months ago, grinning, saying, *"He's great, Ava, but he's too serious for me. Maybe you guys would get along."*

But she hadn’t broken up with him. Not really. They were on a break. They were always on a break, then back together, a chaotic orbit I watched from the safety of the sidelines.

The red light overhead flickered once.

Then it went dark.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The double doors swung open.

A doctor stepped out. He was peeling off a surgical cap, his movements slow, heavy. He looked tired. Not just professionally fatigued, but deeply, spiritually exhausted.

I scrambled up, my legs feeling like they were made of water. I stumbled toward him, grabbing the sleeve of his scrubs.

"Nina?" I gasped. "How is she? Is she awake?"

The doctor stopped. He looked down at me, and for a second, he didn't speak. He just looked. And in that look, the world ended.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was gentle, practiced, a soft blow meant to cushion a hammer strike. "She sustained massive internal bleeding. We did everything we could."

"No." The word fell out of my mouth, stupid and small.

"We tried to stabilize her, but the trauma was too severe..."

"No!" I shouted it this time, stepping back, shaking my head. "You're lying. She's twenty-five! She’s... she’s Nina!"

"I'm so sorry," he repeated, the professional mask slipping just enough to show the pity underneath.

My legs gave up.

I didn't decide to sit; gravity simply reclaimed me. I hit the floor hard, but I didn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything. The hallway was spinning, greying out at the edges. A wail was building in my chest, a primal, tearing sound, but my throat was closed shut.

*Gone.*

The word echoed in the empty white chamber of my mind. *Gone.*

Footsteps.

Heavy, rapid footsteps approaching from the elevator bank.

I looked up through a blur of tears.

Noah.

He was wearing a dark coat, his hair messy, his face the color of ash. He stopped ten feet away. He must have seen the doctor. He must have seen me on the floor.

He looked at the closed doors of the operating room, then at the doctor, who gave a small, somber nod and walked away to give us space.

Noah didn't move. He stood there, frozen, a statue of devastation. His eyes were red-rimmed, wild, darting frantically between the doors and me as if looking for an escape, a rewind button, a mistake.

Then his eyes locked on mine.

For a moment, he just stared. It was a look of such raw, unvarnished agony that I wanted to look away. But I couldn't.

He opened his mouth, his lips dry and cracked. A sound tried to come out—her name, maybe—but it died in his throat. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply.

He took a step toward me, then stopped, his hand half-reaching out before dropping to his side. He looked... lost. Like a building whose foundation had just been blasted away.

We were the only two people left in the universe. The survivor and the widower.

"Ava," he whispered. It was a broken sound, rusted and bleeding.

I couldn't answer. I just curled into myself on the cold hospital floor and let the scream finally rip its way out of my throat, shattering the silence, shattering us both.

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