The tiniest flicker of memory, there and gone like a spark on the wind. But it was real. And it hit me like an earthquake beneath my ribs.
Hope.
It’s dangerous. It hurts. But I’d forgotten how good it feels to hold on to something that might come back.
I crash onto the couch, hair still damp, towel slung around my shoulders. The apartment smells like cheap takeout and faded cologne. I grab my phone off the coffee table and power it on—more out of habit than hope.
Before I left the hospital, I gave her a phone. Meant to help her set it up, walk her through it. I didn’t need to. Eight years gone, and she still picked it up like muscle memory. Watching her flick through the menus, changing the wallpaper without hesitation—it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
Mac always was the sharpest of us all.
I made sure she had my number.
That part, at least, I could give her.
I told her to text me. Anytime. If she couldn’t sleep. If she was scared. If she just didn’t want to feel alone in that sterile, lonely room.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I told her. “Just send me something. Anything. I’ll be there.”
And I meant every damn word. I swipe open my messages, not expecting much. My phone vibrates. Once. Twice.
Mac: Logan… I just want to check you're there.
My heart twists so hard it knocks the air from my lungs.
Another vibration.
Mac: I’m scared.
I bolt upright, breath catching. My fingers freeze for a beat before I’m typing on instinct.
Logan: I’m here.
Another breath.
Logan: You’re okay. I’ve got you.
I stare at the words, wishing they could do more. Wishing they could reach through the screen and wrap around her like I want to. Like she deserves.
No reply.
I picture her curled in that too-white hospital bed, shadows creeping up the walls, the mechanical buzz of machines too loud in the silence. I picture her clutching the phone like it’s a lifeline. Her heart racing with memories she can’t quite grasp.
I type again, softer this time.
Logan: Do you want me to come back?
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Come back again.
My pulse stutters like a broken drumbeat.
Mac: No… I just needed to know you’re real.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, shaky and uneven. Press the phone to my chest, like if I hold it close enough, I’ll feel her heartbeat on the other side.
