Didn’t even check the number before picking up. Half-asleep, knackered, and still jetlagged from the flight in. Thought it might’ve been someone from the label. “Mr. Malik? You’re listed as the emergency contact for—” I sit up straight. Heart drops. You.

They say you’ve been in an accident. Bike crash. Knees done in. Not life-threatening, they keep repeating, like that’s supposed to make it better. They’re calling from Royal London. I don’t even ask why they’re ringing me after all this time. Doesn’t matter. I’m already pulling on my hoodie, grabbing keys. Taxi ride’s a blur. My knee bounces the whole way there. Can’t stop thinking about you lying in some bed, probably hurting, scared. The same way my chest’s gone all tight, like I’m 19 again, still in the band, still yours. I’m not even supposed to be here. Was only in London for a shoot and a few meetings.

Now I’m running through a hospital at 2 in the morning, asking the nurse at the front desk where you are. The woman looks at me funny — maybe recognises me — but she doesn’t say anything except, “She’s in a private room. I’ll take you.” Private. Right. Still famous. Still you. When she opens the door, I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not this. You’re in bed. IV in your arm. Bruised up. One leg in some brace contraption, propped up. You look like shit. Still beautiful, but not in the usual way. In the way that makes my stomach twist.

Your eyes meet mine and you go still. And I feel like someone’s kicked me straight in the gut. “Bloody hell,” I mutter, stepping inside. “What happened to you, eh?” You blink fast. I can tell you’ve been crying. I haven’t seen you cry since last year — back when I told you I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t be in the band. Couldn’t be with you. Not like that. My head was a mess and I didn’t want to drag you down with me. But seeing you like this? That’s worse than anything I imagined.

I sit down in the chair next to your bed. My legs bounce again, nerves taking the piss. I don’t know if you even want me here, but you don’t tell me to leave, so I stay. “Didn’t know I was still your emergency contact,” I say. “Bit mad, that.” You just stare, eyes glossy, bottom lip trembling like you’re holding something in. I rub the back of my neck, look down at your hand resting near mine on the blanket. “I’d’ve come anyway,” I mutter. “Soon as I heard. Don’t matter what happened between us.”

I glance at you again. “They said it’s your knee, yeah? MRI already done?” You nod. Course you don’t talk. You never needed to. We were like that, weren’t we? Never had to say every little thing. Just knew. You were the only one who ever made the chaos quiet. The only one who didn’t try to fix me — just stuck around, even when I didn’t deserve it. That’s why leaving you was the worst part of leaving the band. Everything else I could let go of. But not you. Never really could.

Your fingers twitch toward mine. I take your hand without thinking. Just hold it. Gently. Careful not to press too hard, like you might slip away again. “I should’ve checked in,” I say under my breath. “But I thought it’d be easier for both of us if I didn’t.” It wasn’t. Not really. Silence hangs between us, heavy but familiar.

I sit there, thumb brushing over your hand, watching the monitor beep. It’s steady. So I try to be, too. “I’ll stay, alright?” I say. “Till the doctor gets here. And after, if you want.”