Between Worlds

The Weight of Silence

Silence.
I used to think it was a good thing. Like when you're sneaking around the house trying not to wake your parents, or when you're hiding from Dustin because you're sick of hearing about his "genius" inventions that don't work half the time. Silence meant peace, or maybe just a break.

But not anymore.

Now silence feels like punishment. It's the sound of this hospital room, day after day, with nothing but the faint hum of machines and that slow, steady beep from the monitor. People say that sound is supposed to be comforting—that it means the person you care about is alive. But to me? It just feels like the universe dangling hope in front of my face, like, Look, she's still here... but not really.

Max is lying in the bed, as still as ever. Her hair's a mess because she'd hate the way they brush it here, all neat and proper, like she's some kind of doll. She'd want her headphones. Her music. She'd want to roll her eyes at the doctors and tell them to get lost. God, I'd give anything to see her roll her eyes at me right now.

I sit in the same chair every day, and it's starting to feel like a part of me. The cushion's worn from how much time I've spent in it. Sometimes, I bring my homework here—though it's not like I can focus. Other times, I bring comics, thinking maybe I'll read them to her. But most of the time I just sit here, talking like an idiot, trying to fill the silence.

"Hey, Max," I say sometimes, even when I know she can't answer. "You wouldn't believe what Dustin did today. He tried to convince Mike to join his D&D campaign again. You know how that went."

I'll ramble on about the guys, about school, about how Erica's still bossing me around at home. Anything. Everything. Just so the silence doesn't crush me completely.

The thing is... I don't know if she hears me. The doctors say maybe. They don't know. No one ever really knows. But I have to believe she does, because if I don't, then what's the point of me being here?

And the truth is, I don't just come here because I want her to hear me. I come because I don't know how to not be here. Every time I try to stay home, I can't sleep. I see her falling again. I see her face when Vecna had her. I see her in my arms, and I swear, I can feel her slipping away all over again.

That night ruined me. And I don't think anyone really understands—not even the guys. They were there, sure, but they weren't the one holding her. They weren't the one screaming her name while she went limp. That moment? It changed me.

People keep saying I should take care of myself, that I can't just put my life on hold forever. But they don't get it. How am I supposed to go to basketball practice or hang out like nothing's wrong when Max is lying here, trapped in some kind of in-between world?

Sometimes I think about what I never told her. The things I should've said when I had the chance. Like how I've been in love with her for longer than I want to admit. How even when she pushed me away, I still wanted to be there. How her laugh gets stuck in my head, and how just being around her makes me want to be... better.

I never said any of that. I was too scared. Too proud. Too stupid.

Now, every word I didn't say feels like a weight pressing on my chest. And I've made myself a promise: when she wakes up—when, not if—I'm not holding back anymore. She's going to know. All of it.

Sometimes, when it's late and no one's around, I'll hold her hand. Just for a second. Her skin's warm, soft, and it makes me feel like maybe she's still fighting in there. I squeeze her fingers gently and whisper, "You're gonna come back to me, Max. You have to."

Because the truth is, I don't know how to keep going without her.

And I refuse to believe this is the end of our story.