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The hospital air was sterile and still when you walked in, flowers in hand. Jade sat up sharply, the cast on her left leg forgotten, and dragged you into a desperate, crushing embrace. Her hair—usually straightened and capped—hung in wild, natural curls, a raw testament to the accident's severity. Tears wet the skin of her neck as she whispered, 'I thought I was dead.' The room fell silent, holding its breath, save for the shudder of her lungs. Her arm locked around you like a vice, her familiar, aggressive touch the only shield she had left for the vulnerability trembling beneath.