Page 28 of Midnight Between Us
Dr.Aldridge stills.The look in his eyes softens—not pity, just interest mixed with something like caution.
“You’re describing what we call a coma dream,” he says.“It’s not unusual in TBI recovery.The brain tries to create order out of static—stories, people, places.It’s its way of holding on.”
“She felt real,” I insist.“Maybe she was.At some point.”
He clicks his pen.“Let’s try a tracking test.Follow the pen with your eyes.”
I do, so slowly and half-focused.My vision drifts right before it snaps back, as if my brain knows what’s expected and yet still refuses to deliver.
He lifts a reflex tool and taps my knee.
My leg jerks, but not with urgency.Like it’s remembering how to be a leg in real-time.
“Sluggish,” he mutters.“Expected.”
I want to ask when that ends—when I stop being a case study or a file someone reopens too late.But I don’t say anything, because the only question I really want to ask is:Where the fuck is she?
And why her absence hurts more than the wreck ever did.
He shines a light into my eyes.Something burns behind them—not exactly pain.A flicker.A pulse.A memory trying to claw its way back.
Then his pen slips from his hand.
It hits the floor with a crack—louder than it should be.The sound splits the air like a starting gun, like a bell, like the moment before something breaks.
And suddenly, it’s not the clinic anymore.
It begins with the light of late afternoon.The tired, golden haze that filters through old stained glass and bathes everything in something that almost feels holy.The air smells like wood polish, mildew, and something quieter.Something that’s been waiting.
I’m in a church.
It’s more like a small, worn-down chapel.The hymnals are torn at the corners.The pew cushions are faded and uneven, and the wood groaning under the slightest shift in weight.People don’t stay here because it’s beautiful—they stay because it’s familiar.Because it’s held too many confessions, too many promises.Because after a while, leaving feels harder than staying.
She’s already sitting beside me when the scene pulls into focus.Her hands are tucked under her thighs as if she doesn’t trust them not to fidget.Her knees knock against mine, and she doesn’t apologize.
It’sher.Younger.Teenager, maybe.Her auburn hair is down, curls damp like she just stepped out of the river.She’s wearing a flannel shirt that’s too big—it might be mine.There’s a bruise on her arm that she’s trying to hide beneath the sleeve, and the frayed hem of her shorts looks like she cut them herself.
She doesn’t look at me.
Just stares straight ahead at the altar like she’s waiting for lightning.
I want to ask if she’s okay.What we’re doing here.Why she looks like she’s trying to disappear without moving.
But what comes out is, “You stole my shirt again.”
Her lips twitch.Not a smile.Not quite.“It was in your truck.”
“Still mine.”
She shrugs.“Maybe you should stop leaving your stuff where people who love you can find it.”
The word lands hard on my chest—my soul.
Love.
I ignore it.She doesn’t look at me after she said it.We both pretend we didn’t hear it.She’s not supposed to love me.We’re friends—just friends.Sure, there are some benefits between us because she gets pissed if I kiss someone else.It’s as if she has some fucking ownership over me.Still, we’re just friends and nothing else.
There can’t be anything else between us.
