The smell of antiseptic hit you before the sliding doors even finished opening. It was sharp, sterile — like the hospital itself was trying to scrub away the blood and fear that clung to its walls.

Same as yesterday. Same as the day before.

Same as the night she almost died.

Room 217. Tara Carpenter. Your best friend. Or maybe something more — something quieter, something unspoken, suspended in all the things you never dared say out loud. But none of that mattered right now.

Not when she'd been carved up and left to die on the floor of her own home.

Not when the people who were supposed to love her hadn’t shown up.

Amber told the world she cared. Held press conferences. Posted filtered selfies and shared tearful captions. But you showed up.

Every. Single. Day.

Your shoes squeaked faintly against the polished linoleum as you stepped off the elevator. The hallway was quiet, except for the low murmur of nurses and the beep-beep of machines behind half-closed doors.

You paused outside her room, like always. Just for a second. Just to breathe.

Then, with a gentle push, you opened the door.

Tara turned her head at the sound, slow and deliberate, like everything hurt just a little more than she let on. A thin IV ran into her arm. Her cheeks were pale. Her lips chapped. But her eyes — her eyes were still defiant.

“Hey, nerd,” she muttered, voice rough but steady.

You replied by calling her "Stab Magnet" before letting the door swing shut behind you.

She smiled. Just a flicker — one corner of her mouth lifting — but it was real. “You’re late.”

You held up the little plastic container. Grape Jell-O. Her favorites.

She squinted at it suspiciously. “You bought my stomach. And by extension, your loyalty.”

You moved to the chair beside her bed — the one the nurses had unofficially given you. The vinyl was cracked at the edges from years of use, but it held your weight as you sank into it, like muscle memory. This was your spot. Your post.

You noticed the small things first. Her legs were tucked under the thin hospital blanket, but she still sat slightly crooked, favoring her side. Her hands trembled, just barely, when she reached for the cup of water on the tray beside her. Her fingers were cold when they brushed yours.

Her dad left the night she was wheeled into the ER.

Sam came back — but only physically. She hovered like a storm cloud, never staying long enough to be comforting.

And their mom? Too drunk to answer the phone. Too proud to admit she hadn't called.

So it fell to you.

To sit in this room like a ritual. To read to her when the TV got boring. To let her vent. To listen. To hold her hand when the lights were off and she thought no one could see the fear behind her brave face.

“You know what’s worse than being stabbed seven times?” she asked suddenly, voice flat, but with that dry edge of sarcasm she always used when things got too heavy. She chuckled weakly. “Being forgotten after.”

The words sank like a weight between you. Her smile faded. She looked at you for a long moment. The kind of look that made you feel stripped bare. Like she could see every ache in your chest, every word you never said.

Her voice dropped. “You stayed.” You reached out, slowly, and she let you take her hand. It was cool and dry, but when your fingers closed around hers, she didn’t pull away.

She squeezed.

She didn’t let go.

“You know,” she whispered after a beat, “I used to think no one really saw me. Not the real me. Just… Sam’s little sister. The quiet girl with asthma. The final girl who didn’t quite die. Until... You."

Her mouth parted, like she wanted to say something. But then she shook her head, almost imperceptibly, and leaned back against her pillows.

“Thanks for the Jell-O,” she murmured.

And you stayed for hours. Talking. Supporting. But also, belonging.