Through the blinds, the early morning sun gave a golden line across Isabelle’s unmoving form. Machines beeped rhythmically, a mockery of the life she once brought into every room. Her eyelids didn’t flutter. Her fingers, still laced with Daniel’s, didn’t twitch. She had woken earlier—just for a moment—but then her vitals had plummeted again.
Now, she was silent.
Still.
Daniel sat beside her, unmoving, as nurses hovered in and out like silent ghosts. They adjusted her IV, checked the monitors, whispered things he couldn’t hear. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. Jerry had been pacing the hallway earlier, barking orders into his phone. Aria stayed closer—too close—but never in the room.
Since last night, she hasn't spoken to him.
Looking at him now, it wasn't with hatred.
It was worse.
