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Yalda sat stiffly in the uncomfortable hospital chair, her body barely touching the backrest, as though settling fully into it would betray the coil of tension wound tight in her bones.

A wool shawl which was itchy and worn, something one of the nurses must have offered at some point, was draped loosely over her shoulders, slipping occasionally and requiring constant readjustment. Still, it was the only warmth she allowed herself. The rest of her felt too cold, too hollow.

The sterile scent of antiseptic and disinfectant clung to her skin and clothes like an unwelcome second layer. It filled her nose with every inhale, sharp and clinical, stinging her senses and making her stomach churn. The entire room was too clean, too bright, and yet there was nothing comforting about it. It smelled like fear.

The monitors beside Alexander’s bed beeped in their steady, metronomic rhythm. Each sound echoed louder than it should have, even though she knew it was a good thing; hose sounds meant life after all. They reminded her, moment by moment, that he was still here.

But they also served as a cruel reminder of the uncertainty that hung thickly in the air, like invisible fog clinging to every surface, refusing to lift.

He lay so still. So pale. His skin had taken on an unhealthy translucence, his lips a ghost of their usual fullness and color. The strength she always associated with him, so deeply, so automatically, was gone, vanished under the hospital gown and tubes and motionlessness. He didn’t look like Alexander Monroe. He looked like a man teetering between worlds.

And it broke her heart.

She hadn't slept. Not truly. She had dozed off now and then, her eyelids fluttering shut from sheer exhaustion, only to jerk open at the slightest shift in sound, perhaps the scratch of a clipboard, the soft wheeze of an IV bag adjusting, the beep of a machine recalibrating.

Her heart sank every time his vitals changed even slightly. Fear sat coiled in her gut like a snake, always ready to strike.

The hours bled together into something shapeless. Daylight came and went unnoticed, filtered through the tall hospital windows with no ceremony, fading and returning again like an afterthought. It could have been days. It might have been only hours. She wouldn’t have known.

She was still in the same clothes she had arrived in the day before: her jeans creased and uncomfortable, a thin blouse wrinkled from wear, and her jacket now balled up behind her head, an improvised pillow that did little to ease the strain in her neck. Her feet ached. Her body ached. But she wouldn’t move. She couldn’t.

Carl had offered to sit with Alexander so she could go get some rest, but she had refused. There was no rest to be found anywhere else. The idea of leaving, of putting any distance between herself and him was intolerable.

Every so often, a nurse would step inside, clipboard in hand, their shoes squeaking lightly against the polished floors. They would check his vitals, adjust his IV drip, make some quiet note under their breath. Yalda always asked the same question.

“Any change?”

The answer never varied.

“Not yet.”

She stopped expecting anything different. But the question spilled from her lips like a reflex, like a prayer.

Her stomach had long since begun to protest, growling in waves, reminding her of how long it had been since she’d eaten. The sandwich someone had left on the side table for her; turkey on white, plastic still clinging to it remained untouched, the edges curling, bread stiffening from air exposure.

Her mouth was dry, her tongue thick and heavy, but even the idea of water felt meaningless. The only thing that mattered was the slow, shallow rise and fall of Alexander’s chest beneath the thin hospital blanket.

She kept replaying the phone call in her head, every syllable etched into her memory like a burn. How Carl’s voice had sounded on the other end, calm but hollow, strained in a way that made her blood run cold. He knew how dire the situation was.

What if she had been too late? What if the worst had already happened and they hadn’t told her yet? The thought clawed at her mind relentlessly, but she refused to let it win.

No. She couldn’t go there.

Instead, she reached forward with trembling fingers and gently wrapped them around his hand. It was cold. Not lifeless, but far from warm. Her thumb brushed across the ridges of his knuckles, slow and rhythmic, a silent plea written in touch.

"You have to wake up," she whispered, her voice a rasp. The dryness in her throat made every word ache. "You don’t get to leave like this. Not without saying goodbye. Not after everything."

He didn’t stir.

His strong jaw, once so sharply defined, hung slack. His lips, those lips she had kissed a thousand times, were cracked and colorless. The faint creases around his eyes had deepened, made more pronounced by fatigue and illness. She hadn’t noticed them before. Now, they seemed impossibly loud, as if trying to remind her of all the time that had passed.

By the time evening painted the room in golden hues, her body was leaning forward, head resting beside his hand on the edge of the bed. Her eyes closed not out of peace but from sheer, unrelenting fatigue. Her limbs were heavy, nerves raw, and though her heart still beat its anxious rhythm, her body had given up the fight.

A sound snapped her awake.

A cough. Low. Rough. Gravelly. It has her head jerking up. Her eyes flew to his face.

His brow furrowed, twitching as though stirred by some distant dream. His lashes fluttered faintly.

“Alexander?” Her voice cracked, urgent.

His lips parted, dry and hesitant, as though trying to form words but unable to find the strength. His head shifted slightly, slow and unsure, as if the weight of consciousness was too much for his frail body.

“Doctor!” she cried, lurching to her feet. “Nurse! He’s awake!”

What followed was chaos.

Doctors and nurses flooded the room like a dam had broken, their voices overlapping in a chorus of calm urgency. Machines beeped louder. Vitals were called out. IVs adjusted. Flashlights flicked in and out of his eyes.

Yalda stood frozen, hovering at the edge, unable to move, unable to blink.

“Mr. Monroe, can you hear me?” the doctor asked, bending close.

Alexander’s eyes blinked sluggishly. His gaze roamed the room, unfocused and dazed, caught in a haze between sleep and waking.

And then, fleeting but certain, his eyes met hers. Gray and cloudy, but unmistakably his.

Yalda’s hand flew to her mouth, a sob catching behind her fingers. Her eyes flooded. Relief, grief, joy, anger, and love slammed into her chest so hard it knocked the air from her lungs.

He was alive. He was here.

A nurse gently stepped between them. “We need to monitor him closely now,” she said softly. “It’s a good sign, but he’s still very weak.”

Yalda nodded, unable to speak. She backed toward the window, her hands trembling uncontrollably, her knees threatening to buckle. She watched him surrounded by machines and voices, but none of it mattered.

His eyes ha
d found her. He was back. And for the first time in all those hours, she could breathe.