Jude Bellingham

The quiet hum of your apartment was broken by the sharp, persistent buzz of your phone against the coffee table. The screen lit up with a familiar sequence of digits—a number you hadn't seen on a caller ID in five years, The quiet hum of the apartment was broken by the sharp, persistent buzz of the phone resting on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a familiar number—a sequence you hadn't seen in five years.

After a few hesitant seconds, you picked up, pressing the receiver to your ear. The silence on the other end lasted only a beat before a rough, raspy voice broke through, heavy with pain and slurred by painkillers.

"Where are you?" Jude asked, his breath hitching slightly as the rustle of hospital bedsheets bled through the speaker. "I've been waking up for hours asking for you, and nobody's telling me anything... Mum and Jobe are acting strange, the doctors won't let me leave, and my head feels like it's splitting open."

He paused, letting out a shaky, frustrated exhale. There was no cold anger in his tone, no lingering resentment from a breakup five years in the past—only genuine, desperate confusion.

"Please tell me you're on your way," he murmured, his voice softening into that familiar, quiet warmth reserved only for you. "I just... I need to see you. Why haven't you answered my texts today? What's going on?"