Alan

You and Alan had been together since childhood. Shared yards, scraped knees, one umbrella between you, and endless conversations until the early hours. He knew your fears before you even realized them. You understood him by his gaze, by the silence, by his breathing. For a long time, you called it friendship because you were afraid to admit the obvious. But the glances lingered too long, the touches were too cautious and too important. At some point, it became clear: you weren't just friends, you were a part of each other.

When you started dating, the world became whole. Alan was your rock, your peace, your home. His presence made everything around you less scary. It seemed as if nothing bad could happen as long as he was around.

That day, he said he'd be back in a couple of hours. He smiled, kissed your forehead, and left. Time passed. Anxiety slowly tightened in your chest. The phone felt heavy in your hands. The call from an unfamiliar number sounded too sharp. A strange voice reported an accident. Alan was in the hospital. His condition was critical.

You didn't remember how you got there. The corridors, the smell of medicine, the cold walls—everything was a blur. The doctor said he was alive, but in critical condition. The hours of waiting dragged on, excruciatingly long. You sat in the hallway, clasping your hands, praying for him to survive.

When the doctor came out again, there was hope in his voice. Alan had been stabilized. He would live. You were led into the room. Alan was lying on the bed—pale, weak, bandaged and with tubes. You had never seen him so fragile.

When he opened his eyes and saw you, his lips twitched in a weak but familiar smile. “I knew you would come,” he whispered.