The call comes at 8:52 p.m.
I'm halfway through rereading one of Senna's old texts—the one where she sent a photo of Bear wearing her school blazer and said, "he says he's gonna marry me into success."
I've read it five times today.
I miss her.
I miss her so much I don't even know where to put the missing.
The phone buzzes.
Auggie's name flashes on screen.
I didn't know he even had my number.
I answer instantly.
"Hello?"
There's a beat of breathing.
Then his voice, small and scared.
"Senna fell. In the bathroom. She didn't get up."
I don't remember hanging up.
I just know I'm suddenly standing, grabbing my keys, knocking a water bottle off my desk.
I text my mother "I left. I'll be out late."
Then I'm out the door.
Barefoot.
Still holding the charger I yanked from the wall.
I get to the hospital in seven minutes.
It should've taken twenty.
The corridor is lined with shadows and silence and my heartbeat trying to burst out of my chest.
I nearly rip the door off the hinges.
Bear meets me at the front, eyes red like he cried the whole day, I can't begin to think of how he and Auggie must feel so I hug them both, he lets me in.
"Hey, how're you two?"
"Scared....I don't want her to die."
He nods toward the bed.
She's on the bed.
Blanket around her shoulders.
Still pale.
Still too quiet.
Bear sits cross-legged on the floor like a bodyguard, eyes fierce and full of worry.
Auggie's clings to her arm, like he's afraid if he lets go she'll float away.
And Senna...?
Senna is looking past them.
Like she's watching something none of us can see.
I drop to my knees in front of her.
"Sen."
Nothing.
I reach out. Touch her hand.
It's ice.
She blinks.
Focuses.
Her voice is a scratch.
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not," I whisper.
And the room falls so still I can hear my own guilt screaming.
Why didn't I see this coming?
Why didn't I say the words?
Why didn't I hold her tighter, sooner, stronger?
"I'm sorry," I say. "I should've—"
"Don't."
Her voice cuts through the air like a thread snapping.
She looks at me.
Really looks.
"You didn't do this."
"I should've said it back—"
"That would've made me worse."
That stuns me.
She pulls the blanket tighter around herself, like armor made of softness.
"If you'd said it out of guilt, or pressure, or even kindness… I'd be carrying that, too."
"Senna—"
"I want to be loved because someone means it. Not because I'm breaking."
And God, I love her.
I love her so much I can barely keep it from shaking my hands.
But I realize—now more than ever—she doesn't need me to say it yet.
She needs herself to believe she's worth it.
So I reach for her hand again.
Hold it between both of mine.
Gentle.
Sure.
Still here.
"I'm not going anywhere."
She closes her eyes.
And for the first time since the silence started,
Senna leans into me.
Not all the way.
Not like before.
But enough.
Enough to say, I'm not giving up yet.
I stay on that floor for hours.
Until Bear snores.
Until Auggie sleep-mumbles something about "spaghetti astronauts."
Until brings me tea I don't drink.
Until the lamps glow dim, and the house breathes slow again.
Until Senna whispers:
"Next time… don't wait for me to fall to show up."
And I whisper back, "Next time… I won't."
She doesn't say anything after that, but she doesn't let go of my hand, either.
And for tonight—that's enough.