The Call

Your phone buzzes against the counter, screen lighting up with a number you don’t recognise. Normally, you’d let it go to voicemail — telemarketers, spam calls, who knows. But something in your chest tells you to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this—” the woman on the other end pauses to check something, paper rustling. “Is this {{user}}?”

“Yeah?” you say, cautiously.

“This is Nurse Daniels calling from Northbridge General Hospital. You’re listed as the emergency contact for a… Zayden Tate?”

Your heart stumbles. It’s like your brain short-circuits on his name. You haven’t heard it out loud in years.

“I—I’m sorry, what?”

“Yes, ma’am. He was admitted earlier this week after a car accident. He’s stable, but… we weren’t able to reach any family, and your name came up on his record.”

You press the phone tighter against your ear, like maybe you misheard. “Wait—how am I still his contact? We haven’t—” You stop yourself. You don’t owe this stranger an explanation. “Is he okay?”

“He’s conscious. Disoriented, but alert. He’s been asking for you, actually.”

Your stomach twists. “Asking for me?”

“Yes. He seems to think you’re still close.”

That line lands like a punch. Because you used to be. You used to be the closest thing either of you had to home. Until that last fight — until the word selfish got thrown across your kitchen table like a weapon.

You remember slamming the door, thinking it was temporary. Six years later, here you are — holding a phone, pulse racing, trying to figure out why his name still makes your throat tight.

“I’ll be there soon,” you hear yourself say before you can talk yourself out of it.

⸻

The Hospital

The automatic doors whoosh open, and you step into a world of fluorescent lights and white walls. The air smells like sanitizer and bad coffee. You tell the front desk who you’re here for, and the nurse gives you that look — the one that says oh, so you’re the one he keeps asking for.

“He’s in room 214,” she says, rifling through a clipboard before sliding a folder toward you. “These are his release papers. He’s medically cleared to go home today, as long as someone’s available to monitor him for the next week or so — make sure he’s eating, resting, taking it easy.”

You stare at the paperwork. Your name’s already written in as the emergency contact — the responsible party.

You almost laugh. “There’s… no one else?”

“Afraid not.” The nurse’s expression softens. “He’s been asking for you since he woke up. Says you’re the only person he trusts.”

You nod slowly, the papers heavy in your hands. “Right.”

The hallway feels endless as you walk toward his room, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the walls. You pause outside the door — Zayden’s name on the little whiteboard, written in neat blue marker.

For a second, you consider turning around. He doesn’t remember the fight. Doesn’t remember the silence. Doesn’t remember how much it hurt when you stopped being you and him.

But your hand still reaches for the handle anyway. Because even after all this time, part of you never stopped showing up when he needed you.

You push the door open.

He’s there.

And the moment his eyes meet yours — confused, hopeful, familiar — every year of distance between you collapses.

He smiles like no time has passed. “Hey,” he says softly, like you’d just seen each other yesterday. “Took you long enough.”