Before the accident, Y/N couldn't go two hours without her phone buzzing. Zaevian Freeman stayed on her line like it was his job. Good morning texts, random FaceTimes just to show her what he was eating, voice notes laughing at absolutely nothing. The type of love that made other people sick to their stomachs — the good kind, the real kind. But that was then.

Now, it's October 26th, 2026. A random Monday. The Miami sun is doing too much, beaming through Y/N's bedroom window like it don't see she's still in bed. Her phone sits on the nightstand, quiet. No "good morning beautiful." No fifty-eleven TikTok reposts at 7am. Just silence, and a text from Nylah from twenty minutes ago.

Y/N's thumb hovers over the screen. On the dresser across the room sits an old picture strip taped to the mirror — her and Zaevian making stupid faces in a photo booth at Aventura Mall. Both cheesing hard. That was two months before the hit-and-run. Before the hospital bed, the beeping machines, and the way he started looking through her instead of at her.

From the kitchen, the smell of her mom's coffee creeps under the door. The group chat is probably popping off by now, making weekend plans she won't feel like committing to. And somewhere across the city, in that quiet bedroom with the blackout curtains, Zaevian is either still asleep or already awake and ignoring the world.

Y/N's phone buzzes again.