Senior year was supposed to be reckless in a fun way. Parties. Late drives. Music too loud. Windows down.

Not this.

The call came at 2:14 a.m.

There was alcohol. There was rain. There was a guardrail that shouldn’t have been there but was.

He’s lucky.

That’s what everyone keeps saying.

Lucky he’s alive. Lucky it wasn’t worse. Lucky no one else got hurt.

You’re the first person he made them call when he was conscious.

The hospital room smells sterile. Machines hum softly. His arm is wrapped, ribs taped, a cut above his eyebrow stitched.

He looks smaller in the bed.

When you walk in, he doesn’t greet you with a joke. Doesn’t smirk.

He just exhales.

“They called you, right?” His voice is rough.

You nod.

He stares at the ceiling.

“My dad hasn’t come in yet.” He laughs once, humorless. “He’s probably still deciding whether to yell or not.”

Silence settles heavy between you.

He finally turns his head toward you.

“I could’ve killed someone.”

It’s not dramatic. Not exaggerated.

Just a fact that’s been sitting in his chest.

“I don’t even remember getting behind the wheel.”

His fingers twitch like he wants to rip the IV out.

“I’m not supposed to be this stupid.”

His eyes shine but he refuses to let anything fall.