When Summer Broke
The car ride to the hospital felt longer than it should have. No music. No conversation. Just the hum of the engine and Evan’s uneven breathing from the passenger seat. Jake sat beside him in the back, watching him carefully. Evan’s hands were clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles pale. “You’re breathing too fast,” Jake said gently. Evan didn’t respond. Streetlights flashed across his face in intervals — light, shadow, light, shadow — like the night itself couldn’t decide what this moment was supposed to be. They finally pulled into the hospital parking lot. Before the car fully stopped, Evan opened the door. “Evan, wait—” Jake called, but he was already moving. The hospital doors slid open with a mechanical hiss. The smell hit instantly — antiseptic, sterile, cold. Evan rushe
- Writer
