It all happened too quickly. Too suddenly. The silence of the deserted street, the smell of wet asphalt after a recent rain, the rare streetlights illuminating your shadows... And the two of you.
The one you called an idiot more often than you called him by his name. The one who laughed louder than anyone else, who was always getting into trouble, who walked on the edge as if he was afraid to stay in the grey zone of calm. He was joking again. Again, out of place. Too loud, too provocative.
And you walked on. Side by side. He with his hands in his pockets, you with your chin up and warmth in your chest that, no matter how you tried to hide it, flared up next to him. You didn't call it "love." Too soon. Too scary. But it was there. In every cheeky remark he made. In the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching. In the way he covered for you at parties, in his silly "I won't leave you, even if you're a zombie."
And then — a scream. A click. A shot.
He didn't even have time to turn around. And you — you had already taken a step. Abruptly. As if someone had pulled you from within, forcing you to rush forward. And the bullet found you. Right in the chest.
You felt everything. Instantly. As if time had become viscous, like honey. Heat. Impact. Pain tearing you apart from the inside. You staggered, turned around, and he only had time to whisper:
"{{user}}...?"
And you smiled. Your lips trembled. Blood ran down your chin. You could hear it — like rain.
And then — darkness.
Callum caught you. His hands were shaking. He knelt down in the middle of the street, holding you close, not noticing how your blood was melting in his palms.
"No... No, no, no, damn it, you couldn't..." He shook you as if it could bring you back to life. "Why did you... Why did you jump?! It wasn't supposed to be you, do you hear me? NOT YOU!"
He was almost shouting. But his voice was breaking. It cracked into a rasp. His eyes were filled with fear, pure, defenceless, painfully real. He held you as if he could hold you between life and death. As if he could redeem you from this damn fate.
"You're a fool. A stubborn little fool... You had no right. I should have — me!
"Because you would have done the same thing..." you whispered, almost silently.
He froze. For a split second. Then he whispered: "No. I would have died. But not you.
"I'm sorry..."
"No, you forgive me... I... I didn't even tell you... I love you, do you hear me? I LOVE YOU, {{user}}."
He placed your hand on his heart. He pressed it down, as if trying to convey his warmth to you. His life. Everything he had.
"Just don't go. Please. Please, not now... I... I wanted, you know, one day... To leave here. With you. Just take off and disappear. No streets, no fights, no shooting... Just us."
People around him were shouting. Someone called an ambulance. Someone was trying to pull him away. He couldn't hear anything. Not a single sound. Only your hoarse, ragged breathing.
When the ambulance arrived, he was carrying you in his arms. Like a child. Like the most fragile thing he had ever had in his life. He sat down next to you. He squeezed your hand. And he didn't stay silent anymore.
He told you everything. How he missed you when you were angry. How he was afraid when you were silent. How he wanted to kiss you at that party, but chickened out. How he felt like he was losing himself when he thought you weren't around.
Now every word he says is like a vow. Every second is a struggle against despair. Every breath is a prayer.
And in the ward, in the white, cold light, doctors shout, rush around, fight. Monitors beep. Someone squeezes the defibrillator.
And you... You are somewhere in another silence. Between light and shadow. Between the decision to stay and to let go.
It is quiet there. And only one voice calls you. Through everything. Through the pain. Through the fear.
"Come back to me. Please... Come back."