Gemotions

The sterile white walls of the hospital room seemed to close in on him. His hand rested on her arm, the skin cool beneath his touch. He’d been sitting here, watching her sleep, for hours, replaying the event again and again. The memory of the accident, the twisted metal, the screech of tires, felt different for both of them.

He kept glancing at the monitor, the rhythmic beeping a constant reminder of the fragility of life. He’d thought they'd built something sturdy, a foundation of shared experiences and love. He felt the edges of it crumbling.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s not what I remember,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. He squeezed her hand, a useless gesture, but a familiar comfort.