The sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm, golden glow on Ethan's face.
The rays danced across his features, making his pale skin glow like a halo around his head.
The gentle light made the bandages on his head shimmer softly, almost like a crown of resilience.
It was a peaceful moment—the kind that made you forget all the pain and worry, even if just for a second.
Ethan's eyes slowly fluttered open, but I was oblivious, my head resting lightly on his bed, my hands clutching his tightly.
I was sleeping peacefully, lost in my own world of relief and exhaustion, unaware that he had woken up.
Suddenly, I felt it—someone softly patting my head, as if gently stroking my hair to soothe me.
My eyes snapped open in panic, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.
Ethan's lips curled into a slight, faint smile, his face still pale but somehow radiant in that soft light.
"Calm down," he muttered softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm okay." His eyes looked tired but determined.
He began to sit up slowly, wincing a little, and I immediately reached out to help him.
"Careful," I whispered urgently, steadying him as he shifted.
As soon as he was upright, he turned toward me and offered a small, hesitant smile, though I could see the pain lingering behind his eyes—like a shadow that refused to fade.
"Thank you," he said softly, his voice fragile but sincere.
"You stayed here with me right? thanks." His words hit me right in the heart, and I rolled my eyes but couldn't help but smile warmly.
"It's okay. It's my pleasure," I replied softly, patting his hands gently.
Then I looked at him, concern flickering in my eyes.
"Are you hungry?" I asked, trying to lighten the mood. He nodded slightly, and I grinned.
"Okay, stay here," I said brightly, already thinking about what to do next.
I got up and headed to the small table beside the bed, where I arranged his food with exaggerated care—because, of course, it had to be perfect, even if it was just a light snack.
I grabbed a tiny tray and set down a plate with a few slices of soft bread, some mashed bananas, and a little cup of warm tea—because who doesn't love a little humor with their hospital food?.
I even added a tiny paper umbrella in the tea, just to make him smile.
"Here you go," I said, grinning proudly. "A gourmet meal for our brave hero—bread, bananas, and a fancy umbrella. Bon appétit!"
Ethan nodded and reached for the tray, his hand trembling slightly. "Thank you, You're really taking care of me." he said softly, giving me a faint smile.
I plopped down into the chair, grinning like I'd just won the lottery.
Ethan looked at me as he sipped his tea, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Won't you eat? you look hungry" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
I shook my head dramatically.
"Nope. Seeing you eat already makes me full," I said with a grin, crossing my arms as if I'd just delivered the most profound truth in the universe.
Ethan chuckled, shaking his head.
"Come on, look at you—your nose is red, eyes are puffy, and your cheeks are burning like a cooked lobster. How much did you cry? Did a tornado of emotions sweep through you?" he grinned mischievously.
I sighed, rolling my eyes.
"I didn't cry. I… I was attacked by a mosquito," I mumbled nervously, pointing at my pink T-shirt shimmering in the light like it was auditioning for a fashion show.
"It was a tragic mosquito invasion," I added dramatically.
Ethan leaned back, contemplating.
"Hmm..." he said, taking another bite of his snack, eyes gleaming with amusement.
Then a question popped into my head—my voice almost squeaking with curiosity. "Ethan. Why did you run off last night?"
He froze mid-bite, his eyes suddenly darting away like he was trying to escape a terrible secret.
His face changed, a mixture of guilt and surprise flashing across it.
I could tell he was about to say something, but then he looked at me—distracted, caught in a web of mystery.
"It's okay," I said softly, reaching out to hold his hand.
"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I won't pressure you—unless you ran off to join the circus or something." I winked, trying to lighten the mood.
He looked at me, then suddenly seized his hand gently but with a serious expression. "I think you should go home and rest," he said, voice calm but firm.
"Thank you so much for caring for me, Ayana. Really. You can go and rest now." His tone was almost commanding, like a superhero giving orders.
"But Ethan..." I started, but he cut me off with a soft but firm gaze.
"Please," he added, giving me the most adorable puppy-dog eyes I'd ever seen.
I sighed dramatically, feeling defeated, and muttered,
"Fine," as if I'd just been sentenced to life in hospital. With a dramatic sigh, I stood up, giving him one last playful look.
"You better rest, or I'll have to send a mosquito army after you," I teased, then turned around and walked out, chuckling to myself.
Ethan watched as I confidently strutted out of the room, probably thinking I was a superhero on a secret mission.
He carefully placed the tray on the bed beside him, like it was a precious relic, and sighed deeply—probably wondering how he'd survived this long without me.
Suddenly, his mind started to replay the night at the movie—an epic montage of memories.
The flickering images played like a cheesy film: me clutching Mark's hand so tightly I thought I might crush it, refusing to look at him even though he was desperately trying to get my attention with his puppy-dog eyes.
It was like a dramatic soap opera—"The Unseen Love of Ayana and Mark," starring us.
Then, the scene shifted with a jarring cut to the chaos of the accident. Ethan's eyes widened as he vividly remembered the screech of tires, the blinding flash of metal, and the terrifying moment he crashed into another car.
His scream echoed in his mind—loud and piercing—as he held his head tightly, as if trying to squeeze the terrible memories out.
His face twisted in a mix of shock and pain, like he was reliving the crash all over again.
He let out a heavy sigh, his expression haunted but trying to stay composed.
----
As I sauntered out of the bathroom, I looked like a hot mess, but in a "just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-just-rolled-out-of-bed-again" kind of way.
My blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun that looked like it had been put together by a kindergartener having a bad hair day.
I hopped onto the bed, phone in hand, and started texting Nena with a flurry of apologies.
"Sorry I didn't show up today." I hit send, tossed my phone aside like it was a hot potato, and let out a dramatic sigh that could have been heard from a mile away.
And then, because my brain is apparently a walking Wikipedia of awkward memories, I started replaying the time I met Mr. Ronson like it was a bad song stuck on repeat.
"Why does he always say 'ask your mom?'" I asked myself, my inner monologue sounding suspiciously like a 5-year-old with a bad case of curiosity.
"Should I go and find out why? NO, WAIT, I'M A GROWN-UP NOW. I DON'T NEED TO KNOW WHY." Me, trying to be all cool and stuff.
But, because I'm clearly a glutton for punishment, I decided to just go ahead and ask my mom anyway.
I mean, why not, right? It's not like I have better things to do, like, say, actually answering my phone or doing my laundry.
Nope, let's just go ahead and traipse into mom's room, unannounced.