Episode 5: The Night I Chose to Stay
1442 Words
Episode 5: The Night I Chose to Stay
I stared at the café door long after Aidan left.
Like if I looked hard enough, he’d walk back in and tell me everything was fine. That his mom was okay. That he wasn’t carrying the kind of fear I saw in his eyes before he left.
But he didn’t come back.
And suddenly, the café felt too quiet.
Too empty.
Too much like waiting.
I sat there for a full five minutes, staring at my coffee like it had answers.
It didn’t.
Obviously.
Because life enjoyed being unhelpful.
My phone sat beside my cup, and I kept looking at it.
Pick it up.
Don’t pick it up.
Text him.
Don’t text him.
Be normal.
I hated being normal.
Finally, I grabbed it.
Before I could overthink.
Before I could talk myself out of it.
Lia:
Which hospital?
I stared at the screen.
Sent.
Too late now.
I immediately regretted existing.
Maybe that was too much.
Maybe I was overstepping.
Maybe—
My phone buzzed.
Aidan:
St. Matthew’s.
Another message.
Aidan:
You don’t have to come.
I read that three times.
Then typed exactly what I felt.
Lia:
I know.
Pause.
Lia:
I’m still coming.
I grabbed my bag before I could change my mind.
Because sometimes people say “you don’t have to” when what they really mean is “please don’t leave.”
And somehow—i understand that. Too well.
Hospitals always smelled like silence.
Too clean.
Too bright.
Too full of people trying not to break.
I hated hospitals.
I hated the waiting rooms, the fluorescent lights, the quiet panic sitting in every hallway.
When I arrived, it was almost ten at night.
The city outside was still noisy, still alive.
But inside the hospital, everything felt paused.
Like time itself was holding its breath.
I found him sitting alone outside one of the rooms.
Elbows on his knees.
Phone in his hands.
Staring at nothing.
And for the first time since I met him—
Aidan looked tired in a way jokes couldn’t fix.
I walked slowly.
He looked up.
For a second, he just stared.
Like he wasn’t expecting me to actually come.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
He stood up too fast.
“Lia.”
I stopped in front of him.
“You look terrible.”
He let out a small laugh.
“Wow. Straight to violence.”
“I believe in honesty.”
“That’s fair.”
There was a pause.
Then he said softly—
“You really came.”
And I don’t know why that made my chest ache.
Maybe because he sounded surprised.
Like people leaving was more familiar than people staying.
I crossed my arms.
“I said I would.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Most people say things.”
That one sentence told me more than he probably meant to.
I looked at him.
And gentler this time, I asked—
“How is she?”
He sat back down, and I sat beside him.
For a moment, he just stared at the floor.
Then—
“She collapsed this afternoon.”
I stayed quiet.
Letting him speak.
“She’s been sick for months. Heart problems. She kept pretending it wasn’t serious.” He gave a dry laugh. “Apparently I inherited that.”
I smiled sadly.
“Sounds familiar.”
He looked at me.
“I kept telling myself it was under control. That if I just worked more, worried less, stayed calm… somehow that would fix it.”
I nodded.
Because I knew that feeling.
Trying to control things that were never yours to hold.
“It doesn’t work like that,” I said softly.
“No,” he whispered. “It really doesn’t.”
Silence again.
Not awkward.
Just heavy.
Then he rubbed his face and looked at me.
“You should go home.”
“No.”
He blinked.
“No?”
“No.”
“Lia, it’s late.”
“I can tell time, thank you.”
He almost smiled.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He sighed.
“You have class tomorrow.”
“And you have emotional damage. I think mine can wait.”
That made him laugh.
A real one.
Small, tired, but real.
And for some reason—
that felt like winning.
He shook his head.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently?”
“By professionals.”
That smile again.
There it was.
And I realized something dangerous—
I would do almost anything to keep it there.
A nurse walked past us, and he looked toward the room.
“She’s sleeping,” he said. “They said she’s stable for now.”
“For now” was such a cruel phrase.
Hope with conditions.
I hated it.
He leaned back against the chair.
“I used to think if I stayed strong enough, nothing bad would happen.”
I looked at him.
“That’s a terrible system.”
“Yeah. Zero stars. Would not recommend.”
I smiled.
Then after a moment, I asked—
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked surprised.
“About my mom?”
I nodded.
He was quiet for a long time.
Then—
“Because if I said it out loud, it became real.”
I swallowed.
I understood that too.
Too much.
“My mom used to do that,” I said.
He turned to me.
“She’d hide test results in kitchen drawers. Like if nobody looked at them, the problem would disappear.”
He listened.
Really listened.
“She hated hospitals,” I continued. “Said they made people look like they were already halfway gone.”
I stared at the white floor tiles.
“When she got worse, everyone kept saying ‘be strong.’ I hated that.”
Aidan’s voice was quiet.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to be strong. I wanted her to stay.”
The words came out sharper than I expected.
Honest.
Too honest.
But he didn’t flinch.
He just nodded.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I get that.”
And somehow—
that hurt more.
Because being understood like that leaves no place to hide.
We sat there for what felt like forever.
Talking.
Not talking.
Just existing beside each other.
At some point, he stood up.
“Come on.”
I frowned.
“Where?”
“Vending machine.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“It is. I need terrible hospital coffee and you look like someone who judges snacks.”
“I do judge snacks.”
“Exactly. Come help me make bad decisions.”
We walked down the hallway to the vending machines.
He stood there staring dramatically.
“This machine and I have history.”
I crossed my arms.
“Didn’t you lose a fight with one already?”
He looked offended.
“First of all, that machine attacked me emotionally.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Second, I’m here for revenge.”
I watched as he pressed the wrong button and got crackers instead of coffee.
I stared.
He stared.
Then I started laughing.
Like actually laughing.
The kind that escapes before you can stop it.
He pointed at the machine.
“This is sabotage.”
“This is karma.”
“I’m in a hospital having a life crisis and even the vending machine hates me.”
I laughed harder.
He smiled at me like that was the point all along.
And suddenly—
in the middle of fluorescent lights and exhaustion and fear—
we were laughing.
And maybe that was love.
Not the dramatic kind.
Not the movie kind.
But the kind that sits beside you in hard places and says,
I’m still here.
He handed me the crackers.
“A peace offering.”
“I don’t accept vending machine apologies.”
“Harsh.”
“Fair.”
We walked back slower.
And just before we reached his mother’s room, he stopped.
“Lia.”
I looked at him.
He was serious now.
No teasing.
No walls.
Just him.
“Thank you.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Because somehow, simple words felt too small.
So I just said—
“You don’t have to do hard things alone.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
And in that quiet hospital hallway,
with tired hearts and too many unsaid things between us,
something shifted.
Again.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just real.
The kind of moment you remember later and realize—
that was the beginning.
That was the night everything changed.
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