Luka hadn't realized how long he had been staring at the floor.
The hospital corridor smelled exactly the way he remembered.
Disinfectant. Clean sheets. Fear.
His hands were still clasped together, knuckles pale, elbows resting on his knees. Every few seconds he lifted his head toward the closed door of her room.
It still hadn't opened.
Time moved strangely in hospitals.
Too slow. Too loud for those who could hear. Too silent for him.
He watched people pass by. Nurses. A man holding flowers. A child with one arm in a cast.
Normal life inside abnormal walls.
The door finally opened.
A doctor stepped out, adjusting his glasses. His lips moved immediately.
Luka stood up.
Focused.
Carefully.
"She's stable," the doctor said clearly. "Her pulse dropped due to exhaustion. We're running blood tests. For now, there's no sign of heart failure."
Heart.
The word hit him like ice.
He swallowed.
"Will she wake up?" Luca asked.
"Yes. She should wake up soon."
Soon.
Soon had once meant something different in his life.
"Soon" had once meant never.
He forced the memory away.
"Can I see her?"
The doctor nodded.
The room was too white.
Too quiet.
Viviana lay in the hospital bed, her dark hair slightly spread across the pillow. A thin oxygen tube rested beneath her nose. Wires trailed softly over her skin. A monitor blinked beside her.
She looked small.
Smaller than she had ever looked at school.
He walked closer.
Each step felt heavy.
He stopped beside her bed and looked at her face.
Pale. Calm. Still.
His chest tightened.
"You're not allowed to scare me like that," he whispered.
His voice sounded rough.
Unsteady.
He reached out carefully, afraid of breaking something fragile. Her skin was warm, her fingers soft in his.
He closed his eyes for a second.
And the memory came back without asking permission.
His sister on a hospital bed.
Machines. Whispers. Doctors avoiding eye contact.
His mother crying into her hands.
He had been too young to understand the words.
But old enough to understand the silence that came after.
He opened his eyes quickly.
No.
Not this time.
Not her.
He leaned closer.
"I can't lose you too," he said quietly, almost angrily. "Do you understand?"
She didn't move.
The monitor beeped steadily.
He hated that sound, even if he couldn't hear it.
Because he could see it.
And he remembered what it looked like when it stopped.
He stayed there.
Minutes passed.
Then—
A small movement.
Her fingers twitched.
His breath caught.
"Vivi?"
Her eyelashes fluttered slightly.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Her eyes opened.
For a moment she looked confused. The ceiling. The lights. The IV.
Then her gaze shifted.
And found him.
Recognition softened her expression.
Relief flooded her face.
She tried to speak—
Nothing came out.
She remembered.
Her throat tightened.
Instead, her hand squeezed his weakly.
He immediately leaned closer.
"You fainted," he said gently, making sure she could read his lips clearly. "At school."
Her eyebrows furrowed.
She remembered the golden sky.
The dizziness.
The white light.
Her fingers moved slowly, weak but determined.
"I'm sorry."
He shook his head firmly.
"No."
His jaw tightened.
"You don't apologize for collapsing."
She studied his face.
Really studied it.
His eyes looked different.
Not just worried.
Haunted.
Her fingers moved again.
"Were you scared?"
He didn't answer immediately.
He looked at her hand still wrapped in his.
Then back at her eyes.
"Yes."
One word.
Heavy.
Honest.
Her chest rose slowly.
She had never seen him this open.
"It won't happen again," she signed.
He gave a small, sad smile.
"You don't know that."
She hesitated.
Then signed more slowly.
"Are the tests bad?"
He exhaled.
"I don't think so. They're checking your iron. Your stress levels."
She looked away briefly.
Stress.
New school. New city. Trying to belong. Trying not to be different.
Trying not to need too much.
Her hand tightened slightly in his.
He noticed.
"You don't have to carry everything alone," he said quietly.
Her eyes filled with something fragile.
"I didn't want to be weak."
That word again.
Weak.
His expression changed instantly.
"You're not weak."
She blinked.
"You moved to a new city. Built a new life. You live in a world that doesn't even fully understand you."
He leaned closer.
"That's not weakness."
Her vision blurred slightly.
Not from dizziness.
From emotion.
She swallowed.
"My sister fainted before we realized she had a heart condition," he admitted quietly.
Her breath caught.
He rarely talked about her.
"She said she was fine too."
The air shifted.
"But you're not her," he added quickly, almost protective against the thought. "And this isn't that."
Viviana slowly lifted her free hand and placed it gently against his chest.
Over his heart.
"I'm here," she signed.
His eyes closed for a brief second.
Feeling the pressure of her palm.
Real.
Alive.
Steady.
When he opened them again, something had softened.
Not all of the fear.
But enough.
"Don't leave," he said quietly.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't loud.
It was simply real.
She looked at him.
And for the first time since she collapsed—
She smiled.
Small.
But certain.
"I'm not going anywhere."
Outside the room, footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Machines blinked.
The hospital lights remained cold.
But inside that room, something fragile had survived.
Not just her body.
But his fear of losing someone again.
And for the first time, Luca allowed himself to sit beside her bed not as someone waiting for tragedy—
But as someone who chose to stay.