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Elise's POV
Makoto didn't scream.
Didn't cry.
Didn't fall to her knees.
She just said, "He collapsed," like it was a prophecy that had finally caught up to us.
Like the world had stopped making noise and all that was left was the ringing in our ears.
Like she'd been rehearsing it for weeks. Months. Years.
My legs gave out.
I felt it—my knees hit the tile. My vision funneled into static.
I remember a ringing—so loud I thought the world had cracked open.
My mind short-circuited.
Reality fractured like a frozen lake under weight it couldn't bear.
And Carson—my Carson—was beneath the surface. Sinking. Silent.
The hospital was a white coffin.
Sterile. Cruel.
Too bright. Too clean. Too indifferent.
Grief doesn't belong in fluorescent light. It belongs in the shadows.
The walls were humming with secrets. The air buzzed with panic too exhausted to speak.
I walked like a sleepwalker through halls that smelled like ammonia and antiseptic and something else—
loss.
Carson's room was the epicenter of my apocalypse.
I saw him and something inside me screamed so loud it broke into silence.
Not out loud. Not where anyone could hear.
But inside—oh God, inside, I was splintering.
He was hooked up to a machine that did the breathing for him.
IV lines. Heart monitors.
The faint beep-beep-beep is like a countdown to something I refused to name.
His body was still.
Still, like he wasn't there anymore.
His chest rose like it regretted doing so.
Like breathing was a burden he couldn't afford.
I didn't recognize him.
Not like this. Not as this ghost.
This empty, unguarded, broken thing the world had chewed up and spit out.
His mother was there, perched like a porcelain doll that had been dropped one too many times.
Her hands trembled. Her mouth quivered with words she couldn't say.
"I should've loved him better," she said, and I swear time froze around that sentence.
Her voice wasn't human.
It was wreckage.
Splinters of memory and guilt trying to claw their way out of her throat.
"I should've kissed him more. Hold him longer. Maybe then…"
Her eyes locked on his face like she was begging a corpse to forgive her.
"…maybe then he wouldn't be trying to die quietly."
I turned away.
Because I couldn't handle seeing my own failure reflected in hers.
I felt like screaming.Shattering.
How the hell do you keep a man who doesn't want life?
I took Damian home because I had to.
No one else knew how to hold a child who'd already learned what absence felt like.
He wouldn't cry.
Just stared at the door. Waiting.
He knew.
Children always know.
I fed him dry cereal with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
He spilled milk on his shirt and I wiped it with a dish towel that smelled like bleach and grief.
I tied his laces with fingers that bled from biting them raw.
Told him Carson would come home.
That he was just sick.
That he wouldn't leave.
And every lie scraped my throat raw,
because I didn't know if I'd ever see him breathe on his own again.
School didn't stop.
Life didn't pause.
The universe had the audacity to keep spinning like nothing had happened.
I wrote a political science paper while trying not to throw up in the library bathroom.
Answered discussion board questions between panic attacks.
Memorized definitions while replaying the last time I and first time I kissed him—
I wish he knew I chose him, I wish I told him I wanted him before he did something stupid.
I drank so much coffee I forgot what sleep felt like.
I didn't eat.
Didn't dream.
Didn't feel real.
When Ryder found out, he went catatonic.
He was talking—he was joking—and then
he just
collapsed.
His body fell like someone had pulled the plug.
No tears. No shouts.
Just an empty stare into nothing.
He sat in the hospital lobby for seven hours and didn't blink.
After that, he wasn't Ryder anymore.
Not the charming one. Not the reckless one.
He stopped flirting. Stopped fighting.
He stopped existing.
He visited once.
Sat by Carson's bed.
Didn't say a word.
Then left without goodbye.
And I saw it in his eyes—
He had already buried his best friend.
Leona found me in a hallway two days later.
I hadn't slept.
I was sitting against the vending machine, clutching Carson's hoodie like it was the only thing keeping me tethered.
She didn't speak at first. Just sat beside me.
Then, soft:
"You're okay."
I laughed.
It broke like glass in my throat.
"We're okay," she said again, and I nodded even though I couldn't feel my limbs.
We held each other like people who knew they were lying.
Like dolls pretending they still had purpose.
Like survivors of a shipwreck still clutching the wreckage.
I didn't tell the others.
They didn't need to know the exact shape of hell.
I protected them from it.
From him—from what he'd become.
Because once you saw Carson like that—
you'd never see him the same again.
And I couldn't risk them pitying him.
He wouldn't want that.
And neither would I.
I stayed quiet. I read to him every night.
Poems. Letters. Books we used to make fun of.
I told him stories I made up—ones where the broken boy always makes it out.
I whispered things I could never say with the lights on:
"You're everything."
"You're the storm and the anchor."
"I love you. I love you. I love you."
But I never used the word.
Because love doesn't survive here.
Not in a place like this.
Not cleanly. Not without consequence.
And then—
on the twelfth day—
his eyes opened.
No music.
No miracle.
Just a blink.
Just a breath.
Just two hollow galaxies blinking through fluorescent haze.
He looked at me.
And I broke again.
"I need you," I said, and my voice cracked like old bones.
He flinched.
Like I'd stabbed him.
Like needing him was a curse he couldn't carry.
"Don't," he whispered.
"Don't need me."
"Don't."
"Don't."
Each word is softer. Each repetition is more desperate.
Like he was begging me to let go.
Like he knew that loving him would ruin me.
And maybe it already had.
He didn't speak again for days.
Didn't eat unless I forced him.
Didn't look at the window.
Didn't flinch when the machines beeps too loud.
He just existed.
Like a bruise the world couldn't heal.
Like something that should have died, but didn't.
The day they discharged him, it felt like burying someone alive.
No one cheered.
No one smiled.
Just a nurse ticking a box.
He walked out like he wasn't sure the floor would hold him.
But I stayed.
I stayed when he wouldn't speak.
When he couldn't sleep.
When he forgot how to be.
I became his shadow.
His echo.
His anchor.
And I'll keep being there.
Even if it kills me.
Even if I have to burn myself down, piece by piece, just to keep him warm.
Because he is mine.
And I will not lose him.
Even if I have to follow him into the dark.
Even if he never comes back.
Even if I don't either.
Leona's POV [MY HELL OF LIFE.]
No one teaches you how to grieve someone who still breathes.
There's no funeral for the living. No black dresses or eulogies for a boy whose body stayed but soul wandered off somewhere darker. Somewhere too far. Somewhere Elise couldn't reach, no matter how many times she whispered his name like a spell to summon the dead back to life. She whispered it like religion. Like if she just believed hard enough, he'd open his eyes and be again.
Carson was breathing. But Carson was gone.
And the worst part? We all felt it. That absence. Like a phantom limb in the middle of the room. You go to reach for something that was always there, only to remember it's been gone for years. His laugh became a myth. His eyes, unrecognizable—like they'd seen something they shouldn't have and never came back from it.
Growing up with Alex felt like drowning in glass. Every step you take cuts you open. But if you bled too loudly, you were weak. So we learned how to drip in silence.
Our house wasn't haunted. It was a ghost. A museum of unfinished screams, of dinners eaten in silence, of bruises buried under long sleeves and forced smiles.
Dad didn't hit. That would have been something to hold against him. No, his violence was spiritual. Surgical. Calculated neglect. Guilt delivered in glances. Disdain served cold over breakfast.
Mom? She folded like paper. We'd hear her sobbing behind the bathroom door with the tap running, like she thought water would drown the truth.
Alex coped by becoming precise. Strategy. A mind carved out of ice and algorithms. He could dissect a room faster than a scalpel. A survivor made of chess moves and silences.
I chose chaos. The loud one. The hurricane. The bitch in red-bottomed stilettos and smudged eyeliner. Because being wild is easier than being wounded. Because if I was loud enough, no one could hear me cracking. Well until the fire.
And Carson... oh Carson was quiet. Not peace. Quiet like a morgue. Quiet like guilt after a failed prayer. He didn't grow up. He drifted. Like fog that never cleared.
He wasn't my lover. He was worse. He was the ache I never got to name. He was guilty of surviving when he couldn't even find solid ground.
We made a pact once. We were ten. I lit a match. He handed me a lighter.
"We burn it down, or we become it."
I chose fire. He chose fading.
Then Ryder came crashing into our lives like a molotov cocktail dressed in cologne.
Carson introduced us during a group therapy session two years ago for fucking sake. "He's cool. You'll like him," he said, like he was offering me poison with a smile.
Ryder was beautiful in the way that should be illegal. Like he was designed in a lab to destroy women and walk away smirking. He looked at me like he wanted to ruin me and have me thank him for it.
I hated him immediately.
He told me I was made of firecrackers and daddy issues. I told him he looked like a failed Gucci model with abandonment problems.
We fought like gods. We flirted like criminals. We hated like the world was ending and we were trying to end the apocalypse into silence.
So naturally, we fucked.
It started with a dare, by Carson ofcourse. A stare. A drink spilled too slowly on the hem of my thigh. He pulled me into the hotel elevator like we were reenacting a heist. Pinned me to the wall like he was trying to exorcise his demons through friction. Our clothes were casualties. Our dignity—nonexistent. The hotel room was red-lit, cheap, and holy.
We ordered room service that we never ate. Knocked over a lamp during round two. I laughed when he called me a menace. He moaned when I told him to shut up and take it like a man. We kissed like we hated each other and touched like we were starving.
I bit his neck like I wanted to devour the part of him that pretended not to care. He worshipped me with shaking hands and said nothing when he came—just buried his face in my hair like maybe it could save him. I scratched his back until he bled. He kissed my ribs like each one held a secret.
We were violent. And it felt like prayer.
The next morning, I pretended to be bored. He lit a cigarette. Said I was insane. I told him, "Yeah, and?"
We kept doing it. Over and over. War disguised as sex. Shame disguised as fun. Pain with a pretty aftertaste.
Then Carson walked in on us.
He opened the hotel door like he expected a sitcom and got a crime scene. We were tangled in sheets, sweat, shame, and sin.
Carson blinked. Didn't even flinch. "Breakfast?"
I smirked. "Ryder's taking me to Switzerland."
Ryder: "No I'm not."
Me: "You begged last night. Remember? Eat it. Swallow it. Or—"
"OKAY," Ryder shouted.
Carson gagged. I winked. My trauma applauded.
But Switzerland was its own kind of beautiful nightmare.
He booked the flights with his father's money. Said he needed air. I needed silence. We both needed to pretend we were whole.
Day One: We landed in Lucerne. White-capped mountains. Cobblestone streets. Peace that felt alien. That night, he kissed me under an old clock tower and said, "If I die here, scatter me where no one can find me."
Day Two: We found a hot spring near the Alps. I told him about the time I tried to drown myself in a tub. He held my face and said, "You're the only storm I'd ever willingly drown in." We made love slowly. Like maybe it could fix us.
Day Three: We hiked to Mount Pilatus. At the top, he whispered all the people he wanted to forgive. His father wasn't on the list. I cried and told him I couldn't remember the last time I felt loved. He said nothing—just held me like I was breaking in his arms.
Day Four: He coughed blood into a napkin. Said nothing. I found it in the trash. That night, he kissed me like he was saying goodbye and I didn't know why it scared me more than death.
Day Five: We got the call. Carson. Stroke. Silence.
Everything shattered.
We rushed home.
Ryder passed out at the airport.
I was scared for his life.
Elise unraveled like ribbon soaked in gasoline.
She began brushing her teeth obsessively. Counting steps. Staring into nothing. Her laugh turned hollow. Her posture slumped like the grief was physically pulling her down.
She watched Carson like he was both tombstone and miracle. Her eyes—too wide, too empty. One night, I saw her whispering to his sleeping body. Her lips moved like she was praying. But no gods answered.
I asked, "Are you okay?"
She said, "I think I'm turning into him."
So I did what I always do. I ran.
I planned Paris.
Day One: The villa glowed gold in the afternoon sun. We drank champagne from the bottle. Elise danced in a red dress and obviously I joined her. Ryder played French songs on the piano. His voice was heaven. Carson sat on the rooftop, cigarette glowing like a star.
Day Two: We played cards. Truths were spilled. Lies kissed. Elise and Carson kissed for the first time since his collapse. It was gentle. Almost holy. I smashed a wine glass when Ryder said I looked like love if it ever learned how to fight. I didn't feel like doing this anymore.
Day Three: Kim Yoon-Suk arrived.
Uninvited. Undeniable. And surprisingly cooperative, no killing.
He was a myth in human skin. Calm, cold, serpent-slick. He offered Elise freedom like it was a business transaction. He told her she was meant to rule, not survive.
"She belongs to me," he said.
"She belongs to me and me alone," Carson growled.
"You don't understand what she is."
"I understand enough to bleed for her."
Kim turned to Elise. "Come with me. I'll build you a kingdom."
She smiled. "I already burned mine down."
He bowed. Left. But we all knew it wasn't over. Even though i watched this like a fucking movie.
The next day, the trip fell apart. Elise screamed in her room. Ryder disappeared for hours. Carson broke down in the bathroom. I sat by the window and whispered old songs to no one.
We flew home.
But none of us came back whole.
Let them come.
Kim. Kylon. The past. The war.
I am already burning.
And I will drag them to hell with me.
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