The café smelled like coffee and baked sugar, the kind of place that felt deliberately warm, deliberately alive. Ayla noticed that first, the warmth, because for once it didn't make her uneasy. The chairs were close together, the light soft and yellow, voices overlapping in a way that felt human rather than overwhelming. Lena sat across from her, stirring her drink slowly, listening with that easy attentiveness that never felt like pressure.
Ayla was talking about the kittens.
She didn't remember starting. She only knew she was mid-sentence, hands moving unconsciously, describing how Mimi had learned how to open one of the lower cabinets and how Miso now sat in front of it like a guard whenever Silas wasn't home. She smiled while she spoke, actually smiled, and didn't immediately feel the need to stop herself, to apologize for talking too much, to check if Lena was bored.
Lena laughed softly. "They've completely taken over your house."
"It's not my house," Ayla corrected automatically, then paused. The words didn't sting the way they used to. "But yes. They act like they own it."
She took a sip of her drink, the warmth spreading through her chest. Her phone lay on the table, screen dark. She hadn't checked it in a while. She hadn't felt the need to.
That was the last normal thought she had.
Lena's phone buzzed. Once. Twice.
Lena glanced at it absently at first, thumb brushing the screen. Ayla didn't notice immediately. She was distracted by the sound of a cup breaking somewhere behind the counter, the sharp clatter briefly cutting through the café's hum.
Then Lena stopped moving.
Completely.
Her smile faded, not dramatically, not suddenly but in a way that felt wrong. Like something had been switched off inside her. The color drained from her face, her shoulders stiffening as she straightened, eyes fixed on the screen.
Ayla felt it then. Not fear. Not yet. Something colder. Something instinctive.
"Lena?" she said quietly.
Lena didn't answer.
She stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor. Other customers turned to look. Ayla's heart began to pound, not because she understood what was happening, but because her body recognized danger before her mind did.
"What is it?" Ayla asked, her voice still calm in a way that felt unnatural.
Lena looked at her.
For half a second, Ayla saw it, raw panic, carefully contained. Then Lena reached across the table, gripping Ayla's wrist a little too tightly.
"Ayla," she said, already pulling her up. "We need to go. Now."
"Why?" Ayla asked.
Her chest felt tight.
Lena didn't answer the question directly. "Your phone, do you have it?"
"It's right here," Ayla said, fingers closing around it instinctively. Her hands were cold. "What's happening?"
Lena swallowed. "Silas… there's been an accident."
The café didn't disappear.
That was the strangest part.
The world didn't blur or fade or collapse the way it did in movies. The chatter continued. Cups clinked. Someone laughed too loudly at a nearby table.
Only Ayla stopped existing inside it.
"What?" she said.
The word felt flat. Weightless.
"Daniel just called you, but couldn't get through. " Lena said quickly, already pulling her coat on, her movements efficient, urgent. "There was a collision. He's been taken to the hospital."
Ayla stood there. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She didn't even feel fear, not properly. Her brain rejected the sentence entirely.
"That doesn't make sense," she said, still holding her phone, staring at the black screen. "Silas was fine this morning."
Lena nodded, as if agreement could fix reality. "I know."
"His car is safe," Ayla continued, words tumbling out calmly. "He always drives carefully."
"I know," Lena said again, her voice tight now. "Ayla, please—"
"This isn't funny," Ayla said softly.
Something in Lena's expression shifted then, and Ayla felt it, the confirmation she hadn't wanted. Her knees buckled. Lena caught her just in time.
The drive to the hospital passed in fragments. Red lights. The sound of the indicator clicking.
Lena's voice on the phone, clipped and professional now, speaking to someone, police, maybe, or hospital staff.
Ayla stared out the window, watching the city blur past, feeling like she was underwater. Sounds reached her late, distorted. Her chest burned, each breath shallow and insufficient, like the air wasn't reaching where it was supposed to go.
She pressed a hand to her sternum. It hurt. Why does it hurt? she wondered vaguely. By the time they reached the hospital, Ayla's legs no longer felt like her own.
The emergency department was too bright. Too white. Too loud. The smell of antiseptic burned her nose, sharp and invasive. She barely registered Lena guiding her through the doors, barely noticed Daniel's car already parked outside, the way Lena's grip tightened when she saw it.
Daniel was on the phone when they entered.
He looked up.
Ayla searched his face desperately for reassurance for anything that suggested this was manageable, contained.
She didn't find it.
Daniel hung up quickly, moving toward them. "They're still assessing him," he said to Lena, voice low. "CT scans are ongoing. He was conscious at the scene."
Conscious.
The word echoed uselessly.
"What does that mean?" Ayla asked.
Both of them turned toward her as if startled, as if they had momentarily forgotten she was there.
Daniel hesitated. "It means… it's a good sign."
Ayla nodded. Her vision narrowed.
She took one step forward and then another and then she was standing outside the emergency ward doors, staring at the red sign.
She couldn't go in. Her fingers curled into fists. Her breathing grew erratic, sharp gasps that didn't feel connected to oxygen at all. Her chest felt too tight, her ribs aching as if something inside her was trying to escape.
This is wrong, she thought dimly.
This is wrong, this is wrong.
She pressed her back against the wall, sliding down slowly until she was sitting on the cold floor, knees pulled to her chest.
Lena crouched in front of her immediately. "Ayla, look at me. Breathe with me."
Ayla tried. She couldn't.
The air refused to stay inside her lungs. Every inhale burned. Every exhale felt like it was taking something essential with it.
"I can't. " she whispered.
Her hands trembled violently.
"I know," Lena said, her voice steady, grounding. "You're safe. You're here. He's being taken care of."
No, Ayla thought. He is. But I'm not.
The realization struck her suddenly, violently. She felt like she was the one dying. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Physically.
Her heart raced painfully, her chest tightening to the point of agony. Her fingers tingled, numb and stiff. Her vision blurred at the edges.
Why can't I breathe?
Why does everything hurt?
She pressed her palm to her mouth, biting down hard to keep from making any sound.
She didn't cry. She couldn't. The feeling was too big, too absolute. Crying required shape, required emotion that could be released.
This was formless. This was drowning. Time lost meaning.
Lena was called away suddenly, doctors, paperwork, urgent decisions. Daniel was pulled into conversations with police officers, his voice low, serious, using words Ayla couldn't process: collision, impact, statements, vehicle identification.
Ayla was left alone. Sitting outside the emergency ward.
The hallway felt endless. Stretchers passed by. Nurses moved quickly, purposefully. A man shouted somewhere. A woman cried openly, sobbing into her hands.
Ayla envied her. She stared at her own hands instead. They didn't feel like they belonged to her.
Minutes passed. Or hours. She didn't know. She thought of Silas. Not memories. Just his presence.
The quiet way he existed in her life. The way he had become the axis around which her breathing had slowly learned to stabilize.
And now, now she was unraveling.
A nurse finally approached her, kneeling slightly to meet her eye level. "You're with the patient from the accident?" she asked gently.
Ayla nodded.
"There are no life-threatening injuries," the nurse continued carefully. "He has lacerations on his arms and head from shattered glass, significant bleeding from one hand that required suturing, and some superficial injuries. No fractures. No internal bleeding."
The words washed over Ayla without settling. "Can I see him?" she asked.
The nurse hesitated. "Not yet. He's still in emergency care."
Ayla nodded again. She leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closing. For the first time since Lena's phone had buzzed, a single tear slipped free. It traced silently down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. She didn't sob. She just sat there, small, folded in on herself, lungs burning, heart breaking under a weight she couldn't articulate.
Everything had been calm. Everything had been safe. And now,
now the ground beneath her had disappeared.
And Ayla understood, with terrifying clarity, that she had never learned how to stand without Silas holding the world steady around her.
Not once.
Not ever.