Chapter 31- Ellie
The world stops making sense the second the call ends.
One moment I’m laughing at my own text, teasing Oliver about feeding Moony. The next, I’m frozen in my kitchen, phone slipping from my hand, my heart dropping straight through the floor.
His voice… It didn’t sound like him.
It sounded broken.
Faint.
Far away.
“Please… come…” “I’m… by our park…”
And then nothing.
No breath.
No words.
No Oliver.
My keys are in my hand before I even realize I’ve moved. I’m out the door, barely remembering to lock it, my hands shaking so hard I almost drop everything. The drive is a blur — red lights, honking cars, the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
“Please be okay,” I whisper over and over, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles ache. “Please, Oliver… please…”
Sirens flash in the distance.
My stomach twists.
No. No, no, no.
I turn the corner and see it — the wreck, the lights, the crowd, the twisted metal. My breath catches in my throat.
I park crookedly, shove the door open, and run toward the flashing lights.
And then I see him.
Oliver.
On a stretcher.
Barely conscious.
Blood on his temple.
His body still.
The drive to the hospital is a blur — sirens, red lights, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold the wheel. I don’t even remember parking. I just remember running inside, breathless, terrified, begging the nurse at the desk to tell me where he is.
They take me back before anyone else arrives.
And then I see him.
Oliver is lying in the hospital bed, pale, hooked up to monitors, his hair matted with dried blood. His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. He looks so still it makes my stomach twist.
I walk toward him slowly, like if I move too fast he’ll disappear.
“Oliver…” I whisper.
His eyes flutter open — unfocused at first, then locking onto me.
And he breaks.
Tears spill down his cheeks instantly, silently, like he’s been holding them back since the moment he crashed. His lips tremble. His hand lifts just an inch off the bed, reaching for me even though he barely has the strength.
I’m at his side in a heartbeat, grabbing his hand, pressing it to my cheek.
“I’m here,” I breathe. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving.”
He sobs — a small, broken sound — and it shatters me.
A nurse steps in quietly. “His family is on their way.”
I nod, brushing my thumb over Oliver’s knuckles.
Minutes later, the door opens again.
His mom rushes in first, eyes red and swollen. Behind her are his sisters — both crying, both terrified. They freeze when they see him, hands over their mouths.
But Oliver doesn’t look at them.
His mom notices. She wipes her tears and gives me a soft, grateful nod, stepping aside so I can stay right where I am.
His sisters sniffle, hugging each other, whispering prayers under their breath.
Oliver squeezes my hand weakly.
“Ellie…” he whispers, voice cracking.
“I’m here,” I whisper back. “I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a knock on the door.
My dad steps in, holding a small bag. He looks at Oliver with a softness I’ve only seen a few times — the kind he uses when someone is hurting and trying to be brave.
“Hey, kid,” Gregory says gently. “Brought you something.”
He pulls out Oliver’s favorite candy — the one he always buys at the movies, the one he once shared with me on our first almost-date.
Oliver’s eyes fill again.
Dad places the candy on the bedside table and rests a steady hand on Oliver’s shoulder.
“You’re strong,” he says quietly. “You’re gonna get through this. We’re all right here with you.”
Oliver swallows hard, tears slipping down his temples.
I squeeze his hand.
He squeezes back — weak, but there.
Alive.
Oliver drifts in and out after my dad leaves, his eyelids heavy, his breathing slow but steady. Every time he stirs, I squeeze his hand, and he relaxes again, like he’s anchoring himself to the sound of my voice, the warmth of my touch.
His mom sits on the other side of the bed, brushing his hair back gently. His sisters whisper to each other in the corner, their eyes red but hopeful now that he’s awake — now that he’s here.
Hours pass like this.
Quiet.
Fragile.
Suspended.
Eventually, a doctor steps in, clipboard in hand.
“He’s stable,” she says softly. “He’s lucky. Very lucky.”
I exhale for what feels like the first time all day.
“But,” she continues, “his body took a hard hit. He’ll need time. Rest. Physical therapy. He may struggle with movement for a while.”
Oliver’s eyes open at that — barely, but enough.
He looks scared.
Not of pain.
Not of the hospital.
But of what comes next.
I lean closer, brushing my thumb over his knuckles. “We’ll get through it,” I whisper. “Together.”
His eyes soften, filling again.
The doctor leaves us with instructions, a list of exercises, and a warning that he shouldn’t try to stand yet. His mom nods, absorbing every word. His sisters cling to each other, relieved but shaken.
When they step out to talk to the doctor privately, it’s just me and Oliver again.
He turns his head toward me — slow, shaky, like it takes everything he has.
“Ellie…” His voice is rough, barely there. “I… can’t… move.”
The fear in his eyes guts me.
I slide my hand into his. “You will,” I say softly. “Not today. Not tomorrow. But you will.”
He swallows hard, blinking back tears.
I stand and move to the foot of the bed. “Can you try something for me?” I ask gently.
He hesitates, then nods.
“Just… try to move your legs. Even a little.”
He focuses, jaw clenched, breath trembling.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then — the slightest twitch.
Barely visible.
But it’s there.
His breath catches. “I… I felt that.”
I smile, tears burning my eyes. “I know. You did it.”
He lets out a shaky exhale — half relief, half disbelief.
I walk back to his side and brush my fingers through his hair. “See? You’re already stronger than you think.”
He closes his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek.
“Don’t leave,” he whispers.
My heart cracks open.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise. “Not now. Not ever.”
He relaxes at that, his breathing evening out, his hand still wrapped around mine like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
His mom and sisters return quietly, settling into the room again. The lights dim. The machines hum softly. The world feels smaller, gentler, safer.
Oliver drifts off to sleep, his fingers still curled around mine.
And for the first time since the phone call, I let myself breathe.
He’s alive.
He’s here.
And we’re going to get him through this.
Together.
After a few minutes of quiet, Oliver’s mom looks at me.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For being here. For… everything.”
I shake my head. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
She gives me a small, tired smile. “I know.”
There’s a pause — gentle, comfortable — and then she sighs.
“Moony’s okay,” I say softly. “A little shaken, but she’s okay.”
Relief floods through her eyes. “Good. I was so worried about her too.”
“She’s at home with my Dad right now,” I continue. “But I’ll take her to your house after.”
“Thank you, Ellie,” his mom says softly. “I’m taking her to the vet first thing in the morning. Just to make sure she’s really alright. She was in the car with him… she must’ve been terrified.”
My chest tightens. I picture Moony whining in the backseat, scared and confused, unable to help him.
“She loves him so much,” I whisper.
His mom nods, eyes glistening. “He loves her too. That dog has been his shadow since the day he brought her home.”
We both glance at Oliver — pale, sleeping, but alive.
I smile softly. “She’ll be so happy when he comes home.”
His mom reaches over and squeezes my hand — the one not holding Oliver’s.
“You’re good for him,” she says quietly. “I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
My throat tightens. “I just… I just want him to be okay.”
“He will be,” she says, voice steady. “He’s stubborn. And he’s got all of us. And he’s got you.”
I look at Oliver again — the rise and fall of his chest, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep, the way his fingers cling to mine like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.
His mom smiles — tired, grateful, hopeful.
And for the first time since the crash, the room feels a little lighter.