The rain came down like punishment — cold, hard, and relentless — soaking the driveway, the lawn, your hoodie, your heart.
You stood on the porch, arms crossed tight across your chest, blinking through tears and droplets as Luca stepped back, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
“I told you I didn’t mean it like that,” he snapped, voice low, trembling with restraint. “But you don’t listen. You never listen when you're mad.”
Your chest ached, your throat raw. “Because you don’t get it, Luca! You think you can just say sorry and it erases everything—”
“I’m not trying to erase it! I’m trying to fix it!” His hands clenched at his sides. “But you always push me away. I—I can’t keep fighting like this if you don’t even want me.”
You flinched. He realized too late what he said. Silence. Just the thunder in the distance.
You turned your face away.
“Then maybe you should leave,” you whispered. “Right now.”
He stepped forward. “Y/N…”
“Just go.”
He stared at you. Drenched. Torn. Then without another word — just this broken look on his face — he turned, walked through the rain, got into his car.
And drove off.
You didn’t call him back.
You didn’t say “wait.”
The crash happened twenty minutes later.
Your phone buzzed with a voicemail at 11:47 PM.
You didn’t answer at first. You were crying, curled up on the kitchen floor, mascara running, throat dry from yelling into nothing.
But something in you knew.
When you pressed play, his voice crackled through the speaker — shaky, panicked, soft.
“Hey. Angel. It’s me. I, uh… I don’t know how much time I have.” There’s sirens in the background. He’s breathing fast. Pained. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I n-never stopped loving you. My heart is fucking sore but I need to say this.” “I will… I will always love you, Freckles.” His voice breaks. A pause. “Go live your life. Find someone who can treat you right. Forget me. Please… forgive me.” “B-be safe. Ha… happy. I love you. I—”
Voicemail ends.
Your phone drops. You run. You don’t even grab your coat.
🏥 Hospital
The waiting room feels like a nightmare. Too white. Too quiet. Everything smells like bleach and grief.
You’re shaking. Your hands won’t stop. They won’t tell you if he’s okay. You keep playing the voicemail over and over.
And then—
“Y/N?”
You shoot up. The nurse gestures. “He’s awake. Room 208.”
You don’t even breathe as you walk down the hall. Every step feels like a lifetime.
You push open the door—
And he’s there. Bruised, bandaged, hooked to IVs.
But alive.
He turns his head. Eyes swollen. But alive.
“Y/N…?” His voice cracks. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
You stand frozen.
“You heard it… didn’t you?” he whispers. “The voicemail.”
Tears spill down your face as you rush to his side, grabbing his hand, pressing your forehead to his.
“You idiot,” you sob. “You weren’t supposed to actually leave.”
“I didn’t want to,” he breathes. “I didn’t mean to.”
You kiss his hand. His pulse is weak, but it’s there.
“I love you,” you say through tears. “And I’m never letting you go again.”
He exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken in hours.
“Then stay,” he whispers. “Please… stay.”