Jack
"Can you tell us your name?"
The question echoed inside a small, windowless room that smelled strongly of disinfectant and old paper. The chair beneath me felt too hard, the table too cold against my palms. For a second, my name got stuck somewhere between my chest and my mouth, like even that was too heavy to say.
"Jack," I finally answered.
One of the officers nodded and wrote it down, his pen scratching softly against the paper. The other leaned back in his chair, arms folded, his gaze steady, not threatening, not sympathetic either. Just watchful.
"Did you know the woman involved in the accident?" he asked.
I shook my head immediately. "No, sir. I'd never seen her before."
"And the child who was with her?"
"No."
"How did you come across them?"
"They were standing near the zebra crossing," I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "Near the T-junction. I was walking home from school."
The officer nodded again. "Did you notice anything unusual before the accident? Speeding? A sudden turn? A number plate, maybe?"
My fingers curled into my palms as I stared at the edge of the table. I tried to replay the moment in my head, but everything came back in broken pieces—sounds without images, flashes without order.
I swallow and stare at the edge of the table. My mind replays the scene without asking for permission. The road. The noise. The suddenness of it all. "The car came fast," I say slowly. "Too fast. I was on the sidewalk. They were crossing. I froze."
"Did you notice the number plate?"
I shake my head. "No. It happened too quickly."
"Any distinguishing features? Color of the car, driver, anything unusual?"
"It was dark," I answer. "That is all I remember."
He asks a few more questions. Where I was standing. How long it took for the ambulance to arrive. Whether anyone else was with me. I answer everything honestly, even when my words feel useless. Eventually, he closes the file and looks at me for a long second.
"You did what you could," he says. "You can go home for now. We will contact you if we need anything else." I nod, though the words do not settle inside me.
Outside, the hospital feels overwhelming. The white lights stretch endlessly above the corridor, reflecting off polished floors that echo every footstep. Nurses walk past briskly. Doctors speak in low voices. Somewhere, a machine beeps steadily, a sound that drills straight into my head.
I spot the child sitting near the emergency doors, small and folded into herself, clutching a blanket that looks too big for her. Her eyes are red and swollen, fixed on nothing. I cannot bring myself to approach her. I stand there, frozen again, just like earlier, my chest tight with something that feels dangerously close to breaking.
A doctor approaches later, mask pulled down, exhaustion carved deep into his face. His voice was calm, professional, practiced.
"The surgery went well," he said. "We managed to stabilize her."
My lungs finally expanded, drawing in a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"But she's still critical," he continued. "There's internal damage we're monitoring. The next twenty-four hours are important."
I nodded slowly, even though the words barely sank in. Critical. Monitoring. Important. None of it felt real.
When the police told me I could go home, it felt wrong, like I was leaving something unfinished behind me. Still, my feet moved, carrying me outside into the cooling evening air.
The hospital campus was quieter now. Streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the pavement. The sky had darkened into deep blues and purples, the kind that usually felt peaceful. Tonight, it just felt heavy.
By the time I reach home, the city is already wrapped in night. The city hums below, lights flickering on one by one like nothing has changed.
I go straight to the rooftop without changing, my white shirt wrinkled, my hands slipping into my pockets out of habit. The breeze brushes against my face, cool and sharp, but it does nothing to clear my head.
8:18 PM.
I stood there with my hands in my pockets, staring at the city like it might give me answers if I look hard enough.
I promised Casey once that I would always help people. That I would never look away. But, today...
The maid called my name from downstairs. Once. Then again, louder this time.
"…Yeah," I replied eventually, though I didn't move.
When I finally sat at the dining table, the food in front of me went untouched. I lifted my spoon, set it down, then did the same with the fork. My hands felt useless, heavy, unfamiliar.
That night, my thoughts kept circling back to Casey. To that stupid promise I'd made. Promised that I'd always help people, that I'd never look away. I'd said it so confidently, like it was easy.
Goddammit.
Later, when I finally lie down, sleep refuses to come. All I can think about is Casey. Tomorrow, I do not know how I am supposed to face her.