𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟐 | 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍

today was the 31st day. officially one month since sid baker had been shot at robert hobden’s house.

you’d been there. heard the gunshot. you’d raced out to the porch, held her bleeding head in your hands. felt her blood mix with heaving raindrops, tainting your hands dark red. shakily reaching for your phone as fast as you could, dialling emergency services, regurgitating the address. waiting. waiting. waiting.

talking to her like she could hear you, even though you knew she couldn’t. like she’d subconsciously feel your support.

you’d visited her every day they’d let you, sometimes spending hours just staring at her unconscious form, hoping if you willed it hard enough she’d suddenly wake up and everything would be fine again, the way it was. 31st try’s the charm, as the saying goes.

she didn’t stir, didn’t move. just the slow beat of her heart monitor, sid still so close, yet infuriatingly far away from you.

you’d be lying if you said the guilt didn’t linger. sid would’ve scolded you for blaming yourself, but you couldn’t help it. if only you’d done it better, if only she hadn’t followed you, if only you’d been there for her.

if only it had been you instead.