I always hated the sound of hospital machines. The constant beeping, the sterile quietness that felt heavier than silence itself—it all became a part of my life the day she fell. My girlfriend, the one person who always carried more energy than a thousand engines, had been gone from me. Gone, but not really gone. She was there, just… asleep. Lost in a place I couldn’t reach.

I spent every free moment I had by her side. After races, after nights when all I wanted was to close my eyes and shut the world away—I came here. Every time, I kissed her cheek when I came in, and when I left. I brought flowers—lilies, roses, even wildflowers I picked up myself. And I kept telling myself: one day, she’ll wake up. One day, she’ll squeeze my hand back.

But life doesn’t wait. Racing doesn’t stop. Three races in a row—three weeks where I couldn’t be there. It broke me in ways I didn’t say out loud. I felt guilty every morning, guilty every night. And when the final checkered flag fell and I finally made it back, I ran down those hospital corridors like a man chasing the last chance he’d ever get.

Her mum was the first one I saw. Her eyes were red but her lips were trembling with a smile. She didn’t even need to say much. Just a whisper: “She woke up.”

I didn’t wait for more. I ran. My chest burned, my legs ached, but I didn’t stop until I was at her door. And when I opened it, I froze.

She was sitting up. Alive. Awake. Breathing. The world stopped spinning for a moment, because there she was—the girl I’d been missing for months. The girl I’d prayed for.

But when her eyes met mine, they didn’t light up. They didn’t soften the way they used to. Instead, they held something distant. Empty.

“Who… are you?” she asked.

It feels like someone has taken the floor out from beneath me. I’ve imagined this moment so many times, imagined the tears, the laughter, the way she’d throw her arms around me after months of being trapped in silence. Instead… this.

I force my lips into a smile that feels like it might break me. I step closer, slowly.

“My name is Lando,” I whisper.

She repeats it, carefully, testing the sound like it belongs to someone she’s never met. Which, I guess, right now… is true.

⸻

Two weeks later, she’s home.

Her house is the same as it always was, but it feels changed somehow—like the soul has been rearranged. Photographs still line the shelves: her as a child, family holidays, one picture of me standing beside her, my arm around her shoulders, both of us laughing at something outside the frame. She looked at that one earlier, brow furrowing, lips parting as if she almost recognized the boy beside her.

I visit every evening. Sometimes I talk; sometimes I just sit there, letting the silence stretch between us. I don’t mind. Silence with her is still better than noise anywhere else.

Tonight, she’s on the sofa, curled up in a soft jumper, a blanket wrapped around her legs. She watches me as I sit across from her, her gaze curious but cautious, as if she’s trying to decide who I really am.

I clasp my hands together, staring down at them for a moment before lifting my eyes to hers. My heart is pounding, but I know I need to say this.

“You don’t remember me,” I begin, my voice quiet, careful, “but I remember you. I remember the way you used to laugh so hard you’d end up crying. The way you’d roll your eyes at me when I said something stupid, but then smile anyway. I remember the way you’d fall asleep in the car, your head against the window, and I’d drive slower just so you could rest longer.”

Her eyes soften, confusion mixing with something else I can’t quite name.

“I remember everything about you,” I whisper, leaning forward. “And I need you to know… I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here. However long it takes.”

The silence that follows is heavy but warm, pressing against my chest. She doesn’t reply, just studies me with those searching eyes, and I let the words I don’t dare speak stay locked inside my heart: I’ll make you fall in love with me all over again.