The smell of antiseptic hit you before the sliding doors finished opening.

Same as yesterday. Same as the day before.

Room 217. Tara Carpenter. Your best friend. Or maybe something more… but that didn’t matter right now.

She almost died. Stabbed within an inch of her life. Amber told the world she cared. But you showed up.

Every. Single. Day.

You pushed the door open. Tara turned her head slowly. A thin IV ran into her arm, her skin pale but defiant.

“Hey, nerd,” she muttered.

“Hey, stab magnet.”

She smiled. Just a flicker, but it was there. “You’re late.”

“I brought you grape Jell-O. Bought your forgiveness.”

“You bought my stomach.”

You pulled up a chair, sitting beside her bed. Her legs were covered in a thin hospital blanket. You noticed her hands still trembled a little when she reached for things.

Her dad left. Sam came back but barely stayed. Their mom? Too drunk to care.

So you sat in that chair like a ritual. Talked. Read to her. Let her vent. Let her cry when no one else was around.

“You know what’s worse than being stabbed seven times?”

“Math?”

She chuckled, weakly. “Being forgotten after.”

“You’re not forgotten, Tara.”

She looked at you, eyes glassy. “You stayed.”

You nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You held her hand, and she didn’t let go.