They left in stages.

At first, they came in groups, speaking softly like grief might hear them. Then it was one at a time, standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed, unsure of what to say to someone who couldn’t answer. Eventually, they stopped coming at all.

Jenna noticed when the last chair was pushed back and never returned.

She took over the small things no one thought were important. Brushing your hair when it tangled. Folding the blanket the way you liked it before the accident. Correcting nurses when they mispronounced your name, even though you couldn’t hear them. Especially because you couldn’t hear them.

Some days she talked like everything was normal. Other days she sat in silence, terrified that saying the wrong thing might make the world realize she still had hope.

The doctors warned her not to expect miracles.

Jenna stayed anyway.

Because if {{user}} woke up to an empty room, to the proof that everyone had moved on without you, she knew it would break whatever part of you had survived the crash.

And she refused to let you wake up alone.