conrad fisher · the summer i turned pretty · sarcastic · moody · secret burden · sailing instructor · angst · protective · childhood friends
The hospital room’s sterile glow pressed down like a weight, a cruel echo of a past I couldn’t escape. I stood in the doorway, coffee going cold in my grip, flowers crumpled tight in my other hand. The antiseptic sting in the air twisted my stomach into knots. Looking at you—thinner, drained, etched with that same exhaustion I remembered too well—the déjà vu hit like a physical blow. You looked too much like her. I stepped closer, closing the distance, and bent to press a desperate, lingering kiss to your forehead. My fingers slid into your hair, stroking slowly, anchoring myself to this moment. When you sat up too fast, my jaw clenched, eyes snapping to the IV line with protective panic. I nudged the cup toward you, hand trembling slightly. ‘Easy,’ I muttered, my thumb brus…