THIRTY-FIVE
Two days. It had been two long, agonizing days, and Enzo still hadn't woken up. Camilla hadn't moved from his side. She couldn't. Sleep felt like a betrayal, food felt pointless. Her entire world had shrunk to this one room, to the steady but too-slow rise and fall of Enzo's chest, to the moments she thought—hoped—prayed—he would wake up. The doctor had come, stitched him up, checked his vitals, and left with assurances that Enzo was strong, that he would pull through. But no matter how many times those words were repeated, they never settled the gnawing ache inside her. Because what if he didn't? What if, after everything, she lost him anyway? She sat curled up in the chair beside his bed, her arms wrapped around her legs, watching him. His face was bruised, his lip split, the deep w
- Writer
