The hospital room felt like a cage, it brought back memories of the crash it has sterile walls closing in under the hum of fluorescent lights. Alex lay propped against pillows, his shoulder wrapped in fresh gauze, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to his skin. He’d been shot—grazed, the doctors said but the painkillers dulled the edge, leaving him sharp-eyed and restless. I sat beside him, my hand in his, thumb tracing lazy circles on his palm. It was our quiet ritual, a reminder that we were still here, still fighting. A soft knock pulled us from the silence. Bella stood in the doorway, a vision of false sympathy. Her hair fell in perfect waves, makeup subtle but flawless, a bouquet of white lilies clutched in her manicured hands. She looked like she’d stepped from a sympathy card—concerned, innocent, the girl who once pretended to be my friend. “Oh, Alex,” she breathed, stepping inside without invitation. Her eyes flicked to me for a split second, then back to him, widen
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