The weight of waiting

Violet

My fingers curled around the edge of the cold plastic seat, gripping tightly as I fought the tears burning behind my eyes.

One. Two.

A small hiccup escaped my lips, raw and unbidden. My breath shuddered, catching in my throat as I struggled to hold it together. My hands clenched tighter, my knuckles paling as I forced back another sob that clawed its way up my chest.

Three. Four.

It had been twenty-four hours—twenty-four long, torturous hours since Ryan had been brought here. In that time, there had been no updates, no reassurances, just a suffocating silence that hung heavy in the air.

The memories played on a relentless loop in my mind. Ryan. Margaret. The gun. Blood—so much blood. The horrifying crimson pooling around us, staining everything it touched.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but it didn’t help. The images were branded into my brain. I could still hear the deafening echo of the gunshot, still feel the way time seemed to slow as Ryan fell.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I had gone to that house for him, to protect him and now,I was here for him again, waiting helplessly, praying for news that he was still alive.  But I didn’t have the luxury to dwell on the parallels or the cruel symmetry of it all. I was too consumed by the battle to keep my breathing steady, to stop myself from spiraling into panic..

The clock on the wall ticked incessantly, each sound loud and sharp, reminding me of every passing second. My stomach twisted into tight knots, and a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm me. I couldn’t stop picturing him—lying broken and bloodied on a stretcher while those paramedics worked frantically to save him.

I turned my head slightly glancing toward my mom and Max. My mom sat a few seats away,her posture unusually stiff,her face etched with worry. Her perfectly composed demeanor cracked and I'd say apart from my father's death,this was the first time I'd seen her look...this vulnerable.

Max,on the other hand, couldn't sit still. He paced the length of the room,his movements sharp and agitated. His hands kept running through his hair, tugging at the roots. He hadn't stopped since they arrived hours ago.

Right. I told them everything. Summoning the courage to get the words out had been a feat in itself. After I recounted the events of that night—Margaret, the gun, the blood. Max went pale, his disbelief written in every line of his face.

He didn't know. He had no idea what Margaret had done to Ryan, had no idea about the dark shadow she had cast over his son’s life. Ryan had kept it all locked away, hidden from everyone, carrying the weight of that trauma alone.

When I finished, Max exploded, his anger raw and unrestrained. He’d wanted to march straight to the police, to demand answers, to hold Margaret accountable for what she had done. But the urgency of Ryan’s condition stopped him. Nothing mattered more than Ryan right now.

I glanced down at my hands. Ryan’s blood was already scrubbed away, but I could still feel it, sticky and warm, clinging to my skin like a memory I can’t shake

““Violet?”

The voice broke through the fog of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. I turned toward the doorway, where Ashley stood, her eyes wide with concern.

“Violet!” she cried, rushing toward me.

Before I could respond, she pulled me into a tight embrace, her warmth immediately breaking down the fragile walls I had been holding up.

“You came…” I mumbled against her shoulder, the dam finally breaking as tears spilled freely down my cheeks.

“Of course I did. I couldn’t leave you here alone, you idiot,” she murmured, her arms tightening around me.

We stayed like that for what felt like forever, her presence a lifeline in the storm raging inside me. When she finally pulled back, she guided me to a chair and sat down beside me, her hand finding mine and holding it firmly.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked softly, her voice laced with worry.

I shook my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. “No,” I whispered hoarsely. “They haven’t told me anything yet. I don’t even know…” My voice cracked, the words dying in my throat.

Ashley’s grip on my hand tightened. “He’s going to be okay,” she said, her voice steady and full of conviction.

I wanted to believe her. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, the image of Ryan—bloodied and unconscious—flashed in my mind again, relentless and cruel. A sob tore from my chest, and I stumbled backward, leaning heavily against the wall as the weight of it all threatened to crush me.

“He’s going to be fine,” Ashley repeated, her tone firm but gentle. She was trying to comfort me, but her words couldn’t reach the part of me that was breaking.

Nothing could.

I couldn’t lose him.

The seconds crawled by, each one feeling like an eternity. I paced the length of the waiting room, my fingers gripping my phone like it was a lifeline, though it offered no solace. My thoughts refused to settle, circling endlessly around Ryan.

Ryan, lying cold and unmoving in that hospital room.

Ryan, with blood pooling around him.

Ryan, leaving me forever.

I shook my head violently, trying to dispel the thoughts, but they clung to me, persistent and suffocating.

Don’t think like that, Violet. He’s going to be fine. He has to be.

But the fear wouldn’t let go. It clawed at my chest, sinking its teeth in deeper with every passing moment. The longer I waited, the more the doubts consumed me. What if he didn’t wake up? What if I never got the chance to tell him everything I needed to say?

The sound of hurried footsteps snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. My head whipped toward the doorway just as a nurse appeared, her expression serious. 

My heart leapt into my throat. I shot to my feet so quickly my chair scraped loudly against the floor.

“Ryan Jenkins?” I blurted, my voice trembling.

Behind me, I heard my mom and Max move closer, their anxiety palpable.

The nurse nodded, her gaze scanning all of us. For a split second, I couldn’t breathe. Time seemed to stop as I waited for her to speak, for her to either shatter my world or give me back the hope I was so desperately clinging to.

The nurse nodded. “He’s still in surgery,” she said gently. “The doctors are doing everything they can.”

Surgery.

The word hit me like a punch to the gut. I swayed slightly, and Ashley caught my arm, steadying me.

“Is he…?” I couldn’t finish the question.

“He’s critical,” the nurse said, her eyes softening. “But he’s fighting. We’ll keep you updated as soon as we know more.”

She left before I could ask anything else, her hurried footsteps fading down the hallway. I sank back into the chair, my legs barely able to hold me up. Critical. Fighting. The words swirled in my head, but none of them offered any comfort.

Ashley rubbed my back gently, murmuring something I couldn’t hear. Her presence was grounding, but it didn’t stop the ache in my chest or the icy fear creeping through my veins.

I stared at the empty doorway, willing Ryan to walk through it, whole and alive, with that infuriating smirk of his. But deep down, I knew he wouldn’t. Not tonight.

My vision blurred again, and this time, I didn’t bother fighting the tears. They spilled down my cheeks silently.

I couldn’t lose him.

If I had died, there would be the relief of oblivion—a quiet, painless escape. No more sadness, no more longing, just nothingness. But when someone you love dies, the cruelty lies in having to live on without them. The pain of their absence becomes a shadow you carry forever, a weight that eclipses every joy and every moment of peace.

And if that someone was Ryan...

The mere thought of him being gone made my chest tighten, a wave of anguish so fierce it felt like drowning. Because I didn’t just love Ryan. I was in love with him. So deeply, so completely, that the idea of a world without him was unbearable. If he died, I wasn’t sure I’d know how to keep going.

The realization hit me with brutal clarity. I love him. I love him so much that it terrified me. So much that the thought of never hearing his voice again, never seeing his crooked smirk or feeling the warmth of his presence, made my stomach churn and my heart ache in a way I didn’t think was possible.

I wanted to scream, to rail against the universe for putting him in danger, for stealing away the time we could have had. But most of all, I wanted him back. I wanted him to open his eyes, to tell me it was okay, to prove to me that this nightmare would end.

If the universe had any mercy, any compassion at all, it would give me one more chance. One more moment with him. And if that miracle happened—if Ryan survived—I knew I wouldn’t waste it.

I would hold him tight and never let go. I’d tell him everything I’d been too afraid to say. I wouldn’t let us stay hidden anymore, wouldn’t let the fear of judgment or the weight of the world’s opinions keep us apart. Because what the world thought didn’t matter. The truth was far simpler and far more devastating: I couldn’t lose him.

If he died, I wouldn’t survive it. Not really. The part of me that loved him—needed him—would be buried with him, leaving behind only a hollow shell.

So I made a silent promise to whatever force might be listening. If Ryan survived, I’d be braver. I’d fight for us. I’d fight for him. Because he wasn’t just someone I loved. He was everything.