A Different Script

"Welcome back"

I take another step closer. The floor beneath me hums - the low mechanical buzz of hospital life. Beeps. Footsteps. The quiet rustle of a nurse's papers somewhere down the hall.
But in here, it's just... still.

Akane glances between us. She gives me that kind of look people give when they know something sacred's about to happen - that slight, knowing half-smile.
"I'll give you two a moment," she says softly, voice almost apologetic.

Aqua turns his head a little toward her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Thanks."

And then she's gone.
The door closes with a small click, and suddenly I can hear my own heartbeat.

He's really here. Not in a dream, not a reflection, not a memory replayed through tired eyes. Here.

His hair falls a little into his face now - messy, unstyled. His skin looks almost translucent under the pale light. But his eyes... they're the same. Sharp and calm and impossible to read, like they're constantly balancing between past and present.

"Hey," he repeats, a little clearer this time.

"Hey," I echo. My voice sounds small, unsure whether to break into a laugh or a cry.

He notices, of course. He always notices.
"You came fast," he murmurs, gaze shifting to the side, almost shyly.

"I ran." I smile before I realize it, then quickly look away. "You... you really like making people worry, huh?"

A faint sound escapes him - not quite a laugh, more like the ghost of one. "I didn't plan this part."

There it is. That Aqua dryness, the too-cool-for-his-own-pain tone that hides a thousand unspoken things. It shouldn't make me emotional - but it does.

He shifts a bit, wincing as he adjusts his pillow. Instinctively, I step forward, reaching out to help, then stop myself halfway. He notices that too.

"You can," he says quietly, nodding toward the pillow.

I move carefully, fixing it, fingers brushing the fabric near his shoulder. Warm. Alive. Real. My throat tightens again.

When I'm done, I just stand there, looking at him. Not the way actors look at scene partners, but the way someone looks at a memory that somehow walked back into the room.

He looks back.
And it's... unbearable. Because behind that calm gaze is something cracked, something human.

"I kept dreaming," he says suddenly.
My breath catches.
"What about?"

"Nothing clear. Just... lights. Voices. A stage maybe." He pauses, eyes unfocused. "And you."

The world stops again - not dramatic this time, just silent. I can't tell if he's being serious or half-conscious still. But his voice has that tone - that dangerous sincerity that slips out when he's too tired to guard himself.

"You're lying," I say quietly, because it's safer than believing it.

He half-smiles. "Maybe."

And somehow, that tiny word feels like a confession.

The silence returns - not awkward, not cold. Just full.
I sit down in the chair Akane left. My knees feel weak, but I pretend not to notice.

For a while, we just exist like that - him watching the window, me watching him. The kind of peace you only get after chaos.

The morning sun creeps through the curtain, catching on the IV tube, the bedrail, his hair. Everything glows for a second. And it hits me - how fragile this all is.

"Don't... do that again," I whisper.
"Do what?"
"Disappear."

He turns to me - slow, steady, unreadable. Then, finally, that rare thing happens: he smiles. A real one. Small, tired, but honest.

"I'll try," he says.

And I believe him.
Even though part of me knows he probably can't promise that.

The clock on the wall ticks too loudly.
Each sound feels like a small reminder that time didn't stop for him - only for me.

Aqua leans back, eyes half-open, breathing slow. The sunlight catches the outline of his lashes. It's unfair, really. Even half-conscious, he looks composed. The kind of calm that hurts to look at because I know how much noise sits behind it.

I want to ask him everything.
Do you remember what happened?
Did you dream of us?
Did it hurt?
Do you even know how many people cried for you?

But my mouth refuses to open. The questions pile up somewhere in my chest, pressing against my ribs like they might burst out if I breathe too deep.

He breaks the silence first. "You've been visiting?"
I nod. "Yeah. Sometimes with Akane."

His eyes flicker. "You two are close now?"

"Not really," I say quickly, maybe too quickly. "We just... both thought you were gonna wake up at some point, I guess. It felt wrong to wait alone."

He hums. It's not judgment, not jealousy - just observation. Like he's memorizing how much changed while he was gone.

"She's good," he says softly. "Akane."

"So are you," I shoot back before I can stop myself. My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to.
He looks at me - a long, unreadable stare. Then he sighs. "You're still dramatic."

"And you're still annoying," I whisper.

It's stupid. But that's what makes it feel real again - the rhythm, the back-and-forth, the unspoken comfort of pretending everything's normal when nothing is.

He shifts slightly, his hand brushing the edge of the blanket. The IV line trembles. His fingers pause there, pale, steady. Then he looks up again.
"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being here."

There it is - the kind of sincerity he rarely lets out, wrapped in exhaustion and low tone. It hits harder than it should.

"I didn't do anything," I say, because it's easier to downplay it than admit how much I cared.

But he shakes his head. "You stayed. That's something."

The air feels heavier now, but not bad - just full.
He closes his eyes for a second, like even talking costs him more energy than he'll admit.

I should let him rest. I should stand up, say get better, and leave like a normal person.
But my legs don't move.

Instead, I whisper, "You scared us, you know."
His lips twitch faintly. "I scare people a lot."
"That's not funny."
"I wasn't joking."

That's Aqua - that quiet cruelty that's not meant to hurt, just to tell the truth the only way he knows how.

The silence stretches again.
Then, softly, I reach out - not to grab his hand, but just to rest mine on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the warmth coming off him.

He notices. Doesn't move away. Doesn't look.
Just lets it be.

And for the first time since that call, the fear in my chest starts to loosen.

I watch his breathing slow, his eyelids flutter. He's falling asleep again, this time naturally, peacefully. I stay a while longer, counting each rise and fall of his chest.

Then I whisper - quiet enough that only the air can hear it:
"Welcome back."