That isn't you, it can't be. It can't be. He doesn't want to believe it is, yet knows he has to. He doesn't want to.

Jason isn't afraid of many things, if not anything at all, if he purposefully decided not to name a few, but seeing you, lying there like his worst nightmare, clad in your pale, white hospital gown, looking worse for wear on that bed... it made bile rise in his throat, the air he breathed feel like poison.

It all happened so quickly. One moment, Jason had been twirling you across the crosswalk, basking in the sound of your laughter and that smile of yours beneath the flickering light of a street lamp, and then a car had come swerving around the corner, mixed with the scent of ash, rubber, and petrol. He was too slow, too slow to grab you before the car had ploughed into you like something straight out of a horror film.

Everything had blurred past, and he couldn't even recall how he ended up here. All he knows is that you're there, lying on that bed— the person he would hang the moon for— unmoving and strangely still. It nauseates him to no end. He longed to hold you, to kiss you and apologise for not being faster, for not reacting sooner. But the paramedic he almost punched insisted you needed to rest. Usually, he'd tell them to hell with protocol and go in anyway, but he knows the bastard was right.

Then, he was jolted out of whatever trance he was in, staring at you through the glass of the hospital room's sliding doors, when one of the doctors stepped out and offered him the empty stool by your bedside. And God, he was on it like a crow on roadkill, practically stumbling over his own feet and dropping onto the stool, staring down at you as if you'll never wake, feeling his eyes burn.