Borrowed Air

CHAPTER 2:HER POV

The next morning arrives without asking if I’m ready.

The machines wake before I do, their steady beeping pulling me back into my body piece by piece. My chest feels tight — not dangerously, just enough to remind me that yesterday happened. Or something like it.

I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening to the familiar hum of life-support machines and the distant echo of morning rounds. The hospital has its own rhythm — predictable, steady. Comforting, in a way. But also suffocating.

Ava comes in during morning rounds, clipboard tucked under her arm, eyes scanning the monitor like she can read the numbers in her sleep.

“You slept,” she says.

“A little,” I reply.

She nods like that’s a win. “That counts.”

She helps me sit up, adjusts the tubing at my nose, tucks the blanket back around my legs. Everything she does is gentle, practiced — like she’s learned how easily people break.

“You’re quiet today,” she adds.

“I’m always quiet,” I mutter.

She smiles, but there’s a softness at the corners of her eyes, like she knows more than she says. “No. Today it’s different.”

I don’t argue. There’s no point.

After she leaves, I decide to walk. Not far. Just enough to remind myself I still can. Each step is careful, precise. My body needs it. My mind doesn’t.

The hallway smells like disinfectant and coffee, but for a moment, the scent pulls me back. Headlights. Metal twisting. A voice calling my name. My chest tightens. I blink, forcing myself back to the present. Not now. Not today.i sigh .

I keep my eyes forward.

Until I don’t.

He’s near the elevators.

Leaning against the wall like he owns the place, hands shoved into his pockets. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors like he’s daring them to move faster.what an arrogant guy .I say in my head .

I stop. I want to turn around. I almost do. But I don’t.

Our eyes meet.

I roll mine.

“You,” he says.

“Me,” I reply, flat.

He straightens slightly, like he’s about to say something else. Then stops. His gaze flicks to the oxygen tube at my nose.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says.

I cross my arms. “You already used that line yesterday. Redundant.”

His mouth twitches. “I mean it.”

“I don’t care,” I snap. “And I’m not fragile.”

He studies me for a moment. Not my face — my posture. My stance. My breath.

“I know,” he says. “That’s the problem.”

Before I can respond, the elevator dings.

He steps back.

“Just… don’t push it,” he mutters again.

Then he’s gone.

The doors close behind him, leaving the hallway empty — thankfully.

I take a deep breath. Good. He’s gone.

Back in my room, Ava raises an eyebrow the moment she sees me.

“You ran into him again,” she says.

I don’t ask how she knows.

“I did,” I admit.

“And?”

“And nothing,” I snap, already annoyed.

She hums. “That’s never nothing.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, glaring at my hands. “He acts like he doesn’t care. He’s arrogant, rude, and—”

“—and you don’t like him,” Ava finishes, reading me like a book.

“Exactly,” I say.

Ava leans against the bed frame. “Then why do you keep running into him?”

“I don’t,” I lie.

But my chest tightens anyway. Not with longing, not with hope. Just the kind of frustration that comes from someone who refuses to leave you alone.

I catch my reflection in the monitor screen and think about the long months I spent staring at ceilings, counting failures, surgeries, hope that didn’t last. People like him — arrogant, unbothered — make me bristle.

soon, Night falls. The lights dim. The machines settle into their steady rhythm.

I think about the way his voice had softened slightly — just for a moment — when he didn’t think anyone was listening.

I don’t care. I tell myself that again.

I don’t want to know his name.

I don’t want him in my space.

Not now. Not ever. He's freaking arrogant .

I still don’t know his name. And I’m going to make sure it stays that way.