Jayson was alive—but barely.
He lay still in the whitewashed room at St. Francis, bandaged from head to toe, one leg in plaster, a tube running from his nose, the beep of the heart monitor the only sign he hadn't left her completely. The fluorescent lights cast an unforgiving glow across his bruised face, making the purple and yellow contusions stand out in stark relief against his ashen skin.
Nadia couldn't return back to work that day after the accident. She wouldn't. Not while he was in that bed, fighting for each breath. The world outside these sterile walls seemed irrelevant now—a distant universe that continued to spin without her.
She sat beside him holding his hand, whispering things he couldn't hear. This minute she would read aloud from the books he used to love—Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea," passages from Steinbeck that he'd once underlined in college. Next minute she simply stared at him, memorizing every line of his face beneath the bruises and dressings, afraid that if she looked away, even for a moment, he might slip away forever.
"Remember that day at Carlsbad Beach?" she whispered that evening, her voice hoarse from disuse. Outside, the sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, but inside, the artificial light never changed. "You insisted we go even though it was January. Said the tourists would be gone." She traced the outline of his fingers with her own. "You were right. We had the whole place to ourselves. Just us and the waves."
The nurse, a kind-faced woman named Jasmine, paused at the door. "Honey, you should go home and rest. Get a proper night's sleep."
Nadia shook her head. "I can't leave him."
"He's stable. The doctor said the swelling in his brain is going down." Jasmine approached, checking the IV drip. "He'd want you to take care of yourself too."
"I'm fine," Nadia insisted, though the dark circles under her eyes told a different story.
"At least go to the cafeteria. Eat something substantial. Those vending machine sandwiches aren't cutting it."
Nadia nodded absently, but made no move to leave.
The next day, with a little found strength and courage, Nadia returned to work. At the entrance, upon seeing her, the security guard at the front desk looked away as she approached. No greeting. No warmth. Just a cold silence that spoke volumes.
"Morning, Pete," she said, forcing a smile.
He nodded without meeting her eyes.
The elevator ride to the entertainment newsroom floor was interminable. With each floor that passed, the knot in her stomach grew tighter. She had missed the emergency meeting yesterday and doesn't know how Ms Joy would react.
But when the doors opened, she knew immediately that no explanation would suffice.
The newsroom was bustling, but the energy shifted when she stepped in. Conversations paused. Eyes darted away. Her colleague, Destiny, who normally greeted her with a cheerful wave, suddenly became fascinated with her computer screen.
Nadia squared her shoulders and walked toward her desk, feeling like she was navigating a minefield.
Her desk was empty. Cleaner than it had ever been. The photos she'd tacked to her cubicle wall—her mother, her college graduation, the press pass from her first major interview—all gone. A small brown envelope sat on top with her name written in rushed handwriting.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
Inside was a termination letter. Signed. Dated. Final.
"Dismissed on account of work abandonment and non-performance."
She stood there for several seconds, unable to move.
"I'm sorry, Nadia." Destiny had appeared beside her, voice low. "They cleared your desk early this morning. I saved your photos." She slipped a folder into Nadia's hand. "They're in here."
"Thanks," Nadia managed, her throat tight.
"Is it true?" Destiny asked, glancing around nervously. 
"What are you talking about?"
"The rumors. That you're a whistleblower?"
Nadia's blood ran cold. But what could she possibly say? Even if she says what she knows, who would believe her? Nadia looked around, noticed how her colleagues glare at her, their gaze speaking volumes. What effect would explaining things to Destiny have? It would be better she believed whatsoever thing she was told because telling her the truth would mean making her a victim as well. Nadia gave her a weak smile.
Just then, Ms Joy, approached. "Brown. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You're no longer employed here."
"I just came to get my things."
"Already boxed and sent to your apartment." Her voice was clipped, professional. Not the same woman who'd smiled with her few days ago.
"Security will escort you out." She turned away, then paused. "For what it's worth, I voted against termination. But some battles can't be won."
It was all gone.
Her job. Her source of income. The future she'd worked toward. The one thing she held onto to feel sane.
Now, she couldn't afford her mother's hospital bill. Couldn't even buy her next meal. The apartment idea was a distant fantasy.
She left the building without a word, security flanking her on either side as if she were a criminal.
On the sidewalk, the world kept spinning. Cars passed. People talked. Laughed. A street musician played saxophone on the corner, the mournful notes floating up between the skyscrapers.
But inside Nadia... everything was still.
She stood there, brittle and hollow, trying to remember what hope once felt like.
As the day wore out, she went back to St Francis and sat beside Jayson's sick bed watching him. 
The next day she was able to make a visit to Unity hospital—where her mother now barely opened her eyes. The cardiomyopathy had advanced rapidly in the past few days, as if sensing Nadia's divided attention. Her mother's once-expressive face had become a mask, frozen in a perpetual half-smile that conveyed nothing of the woman inside.
For days, Nadia moved like a shadow between the two hospitals. A paper cup of stale coffee in hand, a backpack slung over one shoulder containing a change of clothes, her laptop, and the mounting medical bills she couldn't bear to open. She never cried in front of them. She only cried in bathrooms, in stairwells, in empty hallways where her sobs echoed like broken prayers.
Somewhere in the silence between Jayson's heartbeat and her mother's slow breath, Nadia realized the truth:
She still loved Jayson.
Loved him in a way she never loved Bryan, never could. Bryan had been safe, predictable—a harbor in the storm. But Jayson was the storm itself—powerful, unpredictable, electric. She had run from that intensity once, convinced it would consume her. Now she'd give anything to feel that fire again.
And now, she might never get the chance to say it.
Two men in plain clothes, polite but firm walked into the room. One held a notepad, the other just observed, his eyes constantly scanning the room as if cataloging every detail.
"Miss Brown? I'm Detective Ramirez. This is my partner, Detective Malik." Malik showed his badge briefly. "We're following up on the road accident," Ramirez said. "You were present at the scene?"
Nadia nodded, jaw clenched. "Yes."
"Would you mind walking us through what happened? From your perspective."
She recounted the events mechanically, her voice distant as if she were describing something that happened to someone else. The push. The crash.
Detective Ramirez made a note.
"Do you know of anyone who might have had a reason to hurt him?"
The question was casual. Too casual. The kind of question that suggested they already knew the answer.
She thought of the police chief Walter, with his wants to cover the case. Senator Donovan, whose political ambitions would suffer if Jayson's investigation continued. Tyrone who supports his half brother and other nameless, faceless people who are pulling the strings from behind.
But she shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I don't know anyone."
The men exchanged a look that spoke volumes. 
"If anything comes to you, Miss…?"
"Nadia Brown."
"If anything comes to you, Miss Brown, call this number." Ramirez held out a business card.
She didn't take the card they offered. Her hands felt frozen at her sides.
Ramirez placed it on the bedside table instead. "We'll be in touch."
After they left, Nadia sat motionless looking at Jayson's broken body and made a silent vow. Whoever did this would pay. Somehow.
On the fifth day, Jayson's fingers twitched in her hand. Just the slightest movement, but Nadia felt it like an earthquake.
"Jay? Can you hear me?" She leaned forward, searching his face for any sign of consciousness. "Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
Nothing. Just the steady beep of the monitor.
"It's okay," she whispered, pressing her forehead against their joined hands. "Take your time. I'll be here. I promise."