I tried to speak, but no sound came out.
My vision blurred. Spots danced in the corners of my eyes. I was drowning in air.
Then—darkness.
The antiseptic scent of the hospital room was the first thing I registered.
Then the beep. Soft and steady, like it was reminding me that I was still alive.
I blinked, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together how I’d gotten here—until the taste of shrimp returned to my mouth like a cruel joke, and everything came rushing back. The dinner table. Their laughter. My body betraying me.
I sighed, turning my head slowly toward the window. The sunlight was soft, golden.
I was alone. I sat up, ignoring the slight tug of the IV in my hand. I reached for my phone, the screen lighting up with unread notifications. None from Denver. None from Patricia. None from my mother or father.
I then opened my social media. And there it was.
A photo from Patricia’s story, now gone from her feed but still fresh in my memory. Them at an art auction—laughing. My parents beside them. Denver standing behind Patricia, his hand resting casually on her lower back.
The caption read: “Celebrating life with those who matter.”