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Falling Apart
The ICU felt like a trap. Every sound pressing in, amplified past reason. The cold seeped in from somewhere, or maybe it was the numbness spreading under his skin.
Week two. They’d warned this would be the hardest stretch. The surgeries kept stacking—femur, trach, PEG tube—necessary, brutal, relentless. Ben nodded through every briefing, tracked every word, but nothing made sense.
The monitors burst into erratic beeps as the nurse rushed to Matt’s side. Lucy didn’t wait for explanation. “What’s happening?”
“Heart rate’s spiking. Could be post-op inflammation. I’ll page the doctor.”
“What can we do?”
“Just give us space, please.”
The alarms roared, numbers splintering into chaos.
“Ben,” he heard her say. “He’s going to be okay.”
The doctor swept in with rapid commands Ben barely processed. Ventilator, meds, motion—none of it clear. He followed the jagged lines as they steadied, the beeping settling into rhythm.
“Vitals are stabilizing. Reaction to trauma and surgery. We’ll continue monitoring.”
“You’re okay,” Lucy touched Matt’s hand. “You’re okay, Matt.”
Ben couldn’t move. His mind blanked. Then it hit—like falling without ground.
He fell into something older, hidden so deep he hadn’t dared confront it—because naming it meant owning it, and owning it meant admitting it had always been there.
“I need some air.” He fled before Lucy could react.
The idea of losing Matt scared him straight.
Everything he buried caved in, sharp and uninvited. He told himself it was over, that whatever he once felt burned out long ago.
How am I supposed to face Lucy?
He let his arms drop, a tremor shuddering across his shoulders. The machines echoed from behind the door—rhythmic, alive, proof Matt was in there somewhere.
I should’ve done more. Been faster. Made a different call.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Worse was being here, useless. Watching machines do the job he couldn’t.
He was a fixer. Ran in fires, made calls, solved problems.
Now, he had nothing. And it wouldn’t be enough.
Mask back on, he stepped inside.
Lucy’s attention hadn’t left Matt once.
He joined her, silent, with thoughts he had no right to voice.
Bolting was easier. The hospital. Lucy. All of it. Easier than looking at Matt—easier than sitting with everything he hadn’t let himself feel in years.
But the fear stayed. So did the guilt. And he knew neither was leaving him.
Just checking in. Hope things are okay.
Unanswered. Same as the last text. And the one before that.
The rational part of his brain offered reassurance, but the other part was louder. When Ben finally explained—why he’d vanished, why he hadn’t come home—Josh said he understood. And he had. Or thought he did.
But it wasn’t what Ben said. It was what he avoided.
The vague replies. The sidesteps. The tension in his face every time Matt came up, like even the name hurt. Whatever had happened, it ran deep. And Ben wasn’t letting anyone in.
Josh couldn’t tell if this was distance or defense.
The whole thing gnawed at him—how a stranger became a wall he couldn’t get past. He imagined Ben camped at that hospital, pouring himself out for what he couldn’t even say out loud to him.
If it were you, would Ben be there every day? Would Matt even know you existed?
A buzz pulled him up, quick hope—not Ben. Zara.
So, which is it today—brooding or spiraling?
He typed back.
Both. Care to join me?
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The Awakening