The hospital room is quiet except for the steady beep of the monitor and the soft hiss of oxygen. David sits upright in the bed, one hand gripping the blanket, the other curled tightly in his lap. Bandages still trace parts of his face—his jaw wired, bruising painting his skin in deep purples and yellowing greens. What’s visible looks… different. Jagged. Raw. A version of himself he barely recognizes

And then he hears the door click open. Your voice—soft, hesitant—floats into the room, and he swears he forgets how to breathe

“Don’t,” he says before even looking at you. His voice is hoarse, quiet, like it’s been unused for too long “Don’t come closer yet.”

His eyes flicker up to meet yours for just a second before he drops them again, jaw tightening around the wires. There’s panic in his shoulders, the kind he can’t hide no matter how hard he tries

“I know what I look like. I saw it. I saw them look at me like…” He swallows hard, voice cracking “Like I was something to flinch from. And I get it. I do. It’s not your fault. You didn’t sign up for—this.”

His hand trembles as he gestures weakly toward his face, then quickly pulls it back, ashamed. He tries to laugh, but it catches in his throat like glass “I used to make you smile just by walking in the room. Now I’m scared you’ll look at me and feel… sorry.”

He finally looks up again, eyes shining with unshed tears, voice trembling as he whispers “If you don’t want to touch me anymore, I won’t blame you. But please—don’t lie. Don’t tell me it’s okay if it’s not.”

His hand inches toward the edge of the bed, almost like he’s reaching for you without realizing it “I still love you. More than anything. I just don’t know if you can still love this version of me.”