Page 21 of Midnight Between Us
I try to speak.Try to ask where I am, to say anything that might tether me to this moment, but there’s something wedged deep in my throat.It’s rigid and foreign—plastic, maybe—and the sensation of it sends my body lurching.I gag reflexively, my chest convulsing with the effort to breathe, to scream, to fight my way out.But nothing happens.No sound escapes.No breath fills my lungs.
Only silence.Cold and complete.
A silence that feels like being buried alive—awake, aware, and unable to claw my way out.
Where am I?
What is this?
What the hell is happening to me?
My eyes snap open, and light floods in—too bright, too sterile.It stings.The ceiling above me is unfamiliar, a blank, colorless expanse.Somewhere nearby, machines beep in a steady, mocking rhythm, the sound embedding itself beneath my skin.Something hisses.Tubes run across and through my body, lines threading in and out like I’ve been stitched together for function, not survival.
Air moves through me, but it doesn’t belong to me.It comes from somewhere else.
I blink hard, struggling to bring the room into focus, to move even one limb.Nothing responds.My hands stay still.My legs feel disconnected from the rest of me.I can’t lift, twist, or turn.It’s as if I’ve been bolted to the bed, my body pinned beneath the weight of something invisible and unmoving.
For a moment, I think I’m back on the rock—the dream, the nothingness.That place where time folded in on itself and nothing made sense except pain and loss.
My pulse quickens.I clench my jaw and try again—any motion, any control—but the tube is still there, pressing against the inside of my throat, refusing to let me speak or breathe on my own.
Then something shifts beside me.
A sound.A presence.A voice.
“Finally.”A woman’s voice—low, thoughtful, threaded with something ...not fear, exactly.Nope.It’s more like control.Maybe some sort of restraint that feels practiced, as if she’s holding back more than she’s revealing.
“You took your sweet little time,” she says, but the professionalism feels off.“I need you to calm down, okay?Don’t panic.”
Oops, too late.I already have.The panic is a current now, pulling me under.I’m probably going to drown.
My eyes move toward her slowly, the motion sluggish, like I’m wading through syrup.At first, she’s a blur—scrubs, maybe, hair pulled back, a stethoscope looped around her neck.Her features come into focus gradually, like an old photograph developing in real time.There’s something familiar in the slope of her jaw, the tired set of her shoulders, and the way her gaze doesn’t waver even though I’m unraveling in front of her.
Her cheeks are pale, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion.A faint line sits permanently between her brows like it’s been etched there by years of long nights and harder mornings.
There’s something about her I can’t place, but it pulls at me.Like I’ve seen her before—not here, not like this—but somewhere quieter.Somewhere blurred—a version of her with softer edges, less armor, maybe even a smile.
Wherever I was before—wherever my mind drifted in the dark—there was someone who didn’t leave.Someone who stayed with me in the fog.I don’t know if it was her.
But I want it to be.
Now she speaks like none of that ever happened.Like she’s reading off a checklist.
“You’re safe,” she says again, her voice calm, and detached.“You’re intubated, which is why you can’t speak.You’ve been in a coma, but you’re back now.”
A coma?
I stare at her, trying to dig through the haze in my mind for something ...something that makes sense.My eyes fix on hers, begging her to explain—Who are you?Why do I know your voice?Why can’t I remember your name, yet feel like I’ve known you all my life?
She holds my gaze for a long moment, and something flickers across her face—recognition, perhaps, or the effort it takes not to flinch.Not hesitation.Not concern.Just a quiet calculation, as if she’s deciding how much of herself to let me see.
Whatever it is, she keeps it locked behind her eyes.
And still, she says nothing.
She sees the question in my eyes—and chooses to look away.
She presses something on the ventilator—the hissing shifts.The pressure in my chest eases.I can breathe, but it still doesn’t feel like my own breath.
