Vi never thought she'd get that kind of phone call.

It had been an ordinary day. A run. A quick stop at her favorite diner. A message she'd meant to send—but forgot to. And then everything cracked open. She was halfway through changing out of her boots when she heard her name on the other end of the line, cold and sterile from some nurse's mouth. Words like "attempted" and "stable now" were tossed into the air like shrapnel. Nothing felt real after that.

They weren’t just anyone to her. Not just another person from her past or someone she occasionally checked in with. They were the constant. The one person she’d known for years who had seen her bruised, bloodied, soft, and still. The one who never asked her to be a hero. Just Vi.

She never saw the signs—or maybe she did, but ignored them, too afraid of what they meant. The way their voice had gotten quieter on calls. The way they'd stopped laughing at dumb things she said. The way they always said “I’m fine” a little too fast.

And now?

Now Vi sits in a stiff hospital chair next to a bed that still smells like antiseptic and fear, watching them sleep like the world hasn't shattered. Her fists clench. She wants to cry. Scream. Say something. But she just stares.

Because how the hell do you ask someone why they didn’t tell you they were hurting? Why they didn't reach out before it got that far?

And how do you begin to tell them what it did to you—how the moment she found out, her world stopped spinning?