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Chapter Text

𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱. 𝘉𝘦𝘦𝘱.

The sound dragged you from the depths of sleep, each pulse a tether to reality. A harsh glow greeted your eyes as your eyelids fluttered open, the fluorescent glare flooding your vision. You squinted against its intensity, your body sluggish, sinking deeper into the weight of the hospital bed. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor filled the room, a constant, unyielding reminder of the sickness you had fought so hard to escape.

The scent of antiseptic stung your nose, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the machines that kept the stillness of the room alive with their rhythmic hums. Your muscles were unresponsive, as if fatigue had settled deep into your very bones. Bleary eyes swept over the stark white surfaces—familiar yet unsettling. Their blank faces stared back, offering no comfort, no solace. The air felt thick and suffocating, laden with the sterile stench of alcohol, cutting through your senses like a painful, unbidden memory. Overhead, the dim lights hummed softly, their cold, indifferent glow failing to soften the room’s inherent emptiness.

How could a place hold both the fragile flicker of hope and the suffocating dread of despair? A place where families waited with bated breath, clinging to the possibility of healing, yet where dreams could easily shatter under the weight of loss and the cold finality of death.

For a fleeting moment, in your still-dreary haze, the memories came rushing back—visions of your mother, of days when the hospital wasn’t just a place of care but a constant battleground for her life. You remembered racing from school to the hospital, clutching your bag tightly as fear clawed at your chest. You had to make it before visiting hours ended—there was never a moment to waste. The corridors felt impossibly big, their presence towering over you like a maze meant to swallow you whole. Every footstep echoed unnervingly, as if the space itself was mocking your urgency. Phantom eyes seemed to follow you—nurses, staff, strangers—casting glances heavy with pity, making your heart pound harder. You felt impossibly small, back to being a child caught in the tidal wave of something far greater than you, fighting the urge to shrink under the weight of their silent stares. Every breath felt more burdensome, every step dragging as exhaustion gnawed at you, wrapping you in its suffocating grip.

𝘐𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘐𝘊𝘜, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘴. 𝘚𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘭, 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭, 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵—𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦, 𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦, 𝘩𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳—𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘥—𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.

𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘴𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘚𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯—𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘶𝘯𝘸𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨—𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵, 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

“𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘦, 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶?” 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘱𝘺 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘱 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵, 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘬𝘺 𝘯𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

--

Now, that same scent of antiseptic haunted you, wrapping itself around your memories like a ghost you couldn’t run from. It filled your lungs, dense and suffocating, dragging you back to those days when the hospital had become like your second home. You could still hear the muffled cries of families waiting for news, the shuffling footsteps of nurses hurrying to their next patient, the quiet hum of the machines that seemed to measure the fragility of life.

The hospital was a place you once dreaded—a place where time always seemed at a standstill, where every breath bore the burden of uncertainty. And now, it was where you fought for your own chance at a longer life. The irony wasn’t lost on you. The same sterility that reminded you of her was now inescapable, surrounding you like an invisible barrier that kept you from the world outside.

You longed to be free of it—to feel the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tousle your hair, the ground solid beneath your feet. You longed to be anywhere but here, tethered to a bed, confined by the same walls that had once held your mother. Those days had drained you, body and soul, leaving scars you carried now as you fought for your own life.

And yet, there was no escape, no reprieve. All you could do was endure, the memories of her voice and her presence your only comfort. You wanted to believe you’d see the outside again, that you’d reclaim the life you’d been forced to pause. But for now, you were stuck here, hoping—praying for freedom.

“Hey.”

A soft voice broke through the haze, pulling you back before you spiraled even further into your thoughts. You blinked the faraway look from your eyes and turned your head toward the sound.

Luigi sat beside your bed, his form slightly slouched, as if he'd been in that chair for hours. His curly hair was messier than usual, unruly locks sticking out in odd directions, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His dark eyes, usually bright with mischief, were rimmed with exhaustion, shadowed from the weight of sleepless nights. He still managed a crooked smile, one that deepened the dimples on his cheeks, but it was softer than his usual grins—tired, but undeniably warm.

His hand was still wrapped around yours, fingers slightly calloused from countless hours spent tinkering, hiking, and working. Even in sleep, he must have been holding on, unwilling to let go. His grip tightened slightly, as if reassuring himself that you were really awake.

“You’re up,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, yet filled with relief. “I was starting to think you’d leave me talking to myself all day.”

A weak laugh escaped your lips, and the sound made his expression soften even further, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“You could just go out there, you know,” you murmured, your voice hoarse but steady. “Hike, surf… do all the things you used to. You don’t have to sit here with me all day.”

He raised a brow, his teasing tone slipping through. “You mean 𝙤𝙪𝙧 things?” His thumb began tracing faint circles over your knuckles, careful to avoid the IV lines taped to your skin. He grinned—that familiar, warm expression that made your chest ache. “And leave you here to complain about me not being around? No chance.”

The lightheartedness in his voice faded as his gaze turned serious, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly, but still so gentle… always so gentle with you. “It’s just not the same without you.”

The weight of his words settled between you, bittersweet and raw. He glanced down for a moment, gathering his thoughts, then beamed again—more tender this time, but no less determined. “We’ll get back out there. You and me, together. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 you’re better.”

The way he said it—so firm and full of conviction—left no room for doubt. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even just hope. It was a promise, spoken with the kind of certainty that only Luigi could muster, as if daring the world itself to challenge him. And you trusted Luigi—trusted him to mean every word, to somehow make it true.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, squeezing his hand faintly. “𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯,” you echoed, and for the first time in a long while, it felt like something to hold onto.