Maya woke to silence and a dull, deep ache in her side. Her throat was dry, her head fogged from anesthesia. She turned, expecting to see him in the chair beside her. But it was empty. No flowers. No note. Just the IV drip and a nurse adjusting the curtain.
She blinked against the bright light. “Has Aiden been by?” she asked, her voice rough. The nurse hesitated, then said, “He was discharged earlier this morning. Said he felt well enough to leave.” Maya’s stomach turned. “He didn’t leave a message?” The nurse shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
Lying there, stitched and weak, Maya tried to reason with the sudden hollow in her chest. Maybe he’d come back later. Maybe he just needed air. But deep down, she felt it already—that something was wrong. Something was off. And she had no way of taking it back.