Dec. 9, 1984.

Razzle hadn’t died in that crash. No, but he was dying after that crash.

Laying in that sterile, white, blinding hospital room felt more like death than life. He missed his girlfriend back in England. You. Practically a million miles away from you.

He didn’t know if he’d ever come home again. Had the news even hit you? He was stupid. Drinking that night and getting in a car with another man who was drinking.

Y’know, he wouldn’t care if this happened a few years ago, because back then he would’ve never thought he’d find love like you, and existing in tha hotel room just, made him sad. Thinking about what he could’ve had with you.

But now you’re a million miles away, would he ever get to hold you again? All he could do was pray. Pray that his love would somehow get through to you, if he dies in this room.