Page 26 of Midnight Between Us
And maybe I should be grateful to be alive.I should accept what I’m given and let her go.But I can’t.There’s a pull I don’t understand—something that twists inside me every time she walks into the room.
“I dreamed about you,” I blurt without even thinking.“Before I woke up.”
She goes still.Her spine straightens like it’s bracing for impact.
“I saw you,” I continue.“You kept calling me back.You begged me to stay.”
She doesn’t move.
Then, finally, she speaks.“That was probably just your brain organizing sensory input.You might’ve heard someone calling you while you were coding.A nurse ...or maybe I might have told you to hang on.”
It makes sense, on paper.The explanation is logical, delivered in that calm, clinical way doctors are trained to speak when they need you to stop asking questions.
But it’s bullshit—every word of it.I can’t explain how I know—I just do.
“Do I have a family?”
“Yes.”
“Do they know I’m here?”
Her lips press into a line.It’s the first thing she does that feels remotely honest.“They will.”
That doesn’t sit right.“You didn’t call them?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Why not?”
Her tone sharpens.“I’m keeping you alive.That’s my job.That’s what matters.”
But it’s not the only reason.
My gut tells me that she’s holding back—a truth she won’t let anywhere near the surface.
“Did we know each other?”I ask one more time, this time my voice is less demanding.
Her mouth opens like she might say something.Then closes.
“No.”Her voice holds, but something else doesn’t.“The neurologist will be here soon to do some testing.After that, we’ll be leaving.”
She turns and walks out without another word, leaving me alone with the machines, the beeping, and the ache in my chest that isn’t just pain—it’s loss.
Something I don’t remember.
Someone I can’t name.
But it’s like I’ve already lost it—or maybe it’s her who I lost.
ChapterEight
Keir
There’sa hum in the air that doesn’t belong to the machines.
I’ve been staring at the same crack in the ceiling for what feels like forever.It branches off in three directions, cutting through cheap paint and ceiling tile like a road map to nowhere.I’ve counted the grooves so many times I’ve started assigning them personalities.Line A’s the pessimist.Line B wants out.Line C doesn’t know what it wants.
It’s a good distraction from the rest of it.
