AMANDA
Day 3.
I haven't slept. I don't think I even blink anymore. My eyes burn, my body aches, and my brain—it won’t shut the f**k up.
Ashton is still unconscious. Three days. Three different hideouts. Three sleepless nights of watching his chest rise and fall, waiting for something—anything—to change. But he just lies there, pale and still, like he’s barely tethered to this world.
I hate it. I hate how small he looks. I hate the beeping of the machines, the smell of antiseptic, the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears like a f*****g countdown.
I whisper to him sometimes. Stupid things. Inside jokes. Threats. Prayers.
"Any day now, asshole," I mutter, curling my fingers around his. His skin is warm, but it’s not him. Not really. "You can’t just pull some near-death bullshi
