Page 74 of Caden & Theo
As he begins, my mom squeezes my hand again, and I try to breathe. Maybe—just maybe—once I say it out loud, I’ll start to feel something other than this endless, crushing guilt.
Maybe after this, I’ll be allowed to see him.
I’m not.I haven’t even seen his parents.
He’s awake and communicating, that much I know, but getting more information is like trying to dig through concrete with a spoon. It’s been three days since the accident. Three days since I destroyed his life. Three days since my heart shattered into something sharp and unrecoverable. I don’t know how it’ll ever repair itself. Not if I can’t see Caden for myself. Not until I can check with my own eyes that he’s out of ICU and truly okay.
Okay.
The word sticks in my throat, too bitter and wrong. There’s nothing okay about this. Not even close.
What’s worse is I’m being discharged today. My parents are finalizing the paperwork, organizing aftercare at home, and making sure I have the pain meds and follow-up appointments lined up like good, responsible parents do. They’ve already contacted the university, filed for medical leave on my behalf. Everything’s lined up so neatly.
But I don’t care.
None of it matters if I leave this hospital without seeing Caden.
Fuck it.
I slip away while they’re distracted, ignoring the stabbing ache in my ribs and the heavy fog behind my eyes. The pain is a good thing—it keeps me grounded, reminds me why I’m doing this. I deserve every twinge, every throb, every bruised breath. I almost killed the person I love most.
I creep down the corridor, one hand pressed lightly to the wall for balance. Nurses pass by, a few glancing my way, but no one stops me. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I find a staff board listing patients by wing, and I scan it, eyes locking on his last name like it’s screaming at me.
Room 417.
Private.
Of course it is. He’s a professional athlete. Or… was.
The thought makes my stomach cramp. I swallow hard and move, dragging my battered body to the elevator. Every second feels like it takes a minute. Every footstep adds another brick to the weight pressing down on my chest.
When I finally reach his floor, I pause. The hallway is quiet. My breath rattles in my chest as I inch toward his door. It’s cracked open just slightly. No nurses are in sight. There’s no noise but the soft beep of machines from inside.
I rest my hand against the door, fingers trembling. Then I push it open.
Caden’s in the bed, propped slightly on pillows. His hair is flattened on one side, his jaw dark with a few days of scruff. There’s a thick bandage on his forehead. The moment I see it, a vivid flash of memory hits me like a sucker punch to the chest—blood streaking down his face, the way his eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness, the helplessness in his expression as the world went sideways.
My knees nearly buckle. But I’m here now. And he’s breathing.
I let my gaze drift down, seeing past the blanket draped over his body. I take in the curve of his chest, the rise and fall that confirms he’s alive. That he’s really here.
And then I see it.
The dip in the blanket.
The place where half of his leg used to be.
Reality slams into me, and my chest squeezes so tightly it feels like my ribs might crack all over again. My vision blurs, and I can’t look away.
Then his voice slices through the silence like a blade. Low. Tired. Sharp. “You shouldn’t be here.”
My gaze snaps up. His eyes are open, bloodshot and heavy-lidded, but focused on me. “I—” My voice is sandpaper. “I just needed to see you.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. “Well, now you’ve seen me.”
I flinch. “Caden….”
“Don’t,” he says, his tone flat. “Don’t pretend this doesn’t change everything.”
