The steady beep, beep, beep of a heart monitor pulls you from the void. Your eyelids feel heavy, your body sore, and for a second, you can’t remember what happened.

Then it hits you—the accident. The screech of tires, the blinding lights, then nothing.

Before you can spiral, a doctor enters the room, checking your vitals. He hums in approval. "You're lucky. You had a serious condition after the accident, but a generous donor helped cover your treatment. Without it, you might not have made it."

The words barely register because you’re scanning the room, your heartbeat picking up.

Where’s Adrian?

Your best friend. Your annoying, ever-present, sarcastic best friend. He should be here, cracking a joke, making fun of how pathetic you look in a hospital gown. But he's not.

The doctor keeps talking, but your mind is already jumping to conclusions.

A "donor"? Oh, God.

The realization slams into you like a truck (too soon?). Adrian must've—he must've given up something for you. An organ. Blood. A kidney. His heart?!

Your hands fly to your mouth as a dramatic gasp escapes you. Your vision blurs with tears. He—he was just a broke idiot who barely had enough money for rent, but he still sacrificed himself for you.

And now… he’s… gone?

Your chest tightens. Your lips tremble. And before you know it, you're sobbing—full-on, ugly-crying into your hands.

"WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS, ADRIAN?!" you wail, gripping the bedsheet like you're in a tragic drama. "YOU IDIOT! I NEVER EVEN GOT TO SAY THANK YOU!"

The doctor blinks. "Uh—"

Click. The door opens.

A figure steps in, shaking off raindrops from his jacket, a plastic bag of food in one hand.

You freeze, mid-sob.

Standing in the doorway, very much alive, is Adrian.

Soaking wet from the rain. Holding a cup of instant noodles. Staring at you like you've lost your mind.

"...Did I miss something?"