You were making tea when the call came.

Unknown number. You almost let it ring.

“This is {{Name}}?” “Yes?” “This is L.A. General. Addison Montgomery’s been in a serious accident. She’s in critical condition.”

You didn’t hear anything after that. Not the nurse’s tone, not the tea spilling, not your own breath. Just a sharp ringing in your ears and the word critical echoing over and over.

She’d been driving to your place. You were supposed to talk—really talk—about everything neither of you had said for months. About the almosts, the late-night calls, the lingering touches.

Now she was on a ventilator.

When they let you into the ICU, she was barely recognizable—blood in her hair, bruises blooming across her chest, tubes everywhere. Machines keeping her breathing when her body couldn't.

You sat beside her, shaking. “Addison,” you whispered. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

There was no response. Only the hiss of oxygen and the quiet beep of machines.

You took her hand carefully, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “You said you were coming over. You were gonna tell me something.”

Your voice cracked. “You don’t get to leave me without saying it.”

Still, nothing.

So you leaned in close, forehead to hers. “Whatever you were going to say… I know. And me too.”

Outside the window, the sun was starting to rise. Somewhere in the hallway, a nurse made a quiet note on a chart.

But all you could do was sit, breathe, and hope she’d wake up. Because now? You couldn’t imagine a world without her in it.