One evening, as we sat on her couch, munching on popcorn while binge-watching our favorite show, she turned to me, her expression serious.
“Do you think this is just pretend?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I paused, the weight of her question hanging in the air.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, my heart racing.
“Maybe it started that way, but it feels different now.”
Mia nodded, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“Yeah, it does,” she said softly.
But just as our connection began to deepen, life threw us a curveball.
I received a call from my daughter’s school, and my heart sank when they told me Mia had been in an accident.
I rushed to the hospital, panic clawing at my chest.
When I arrived, I found Mia lying in a hospital bed, her face pale but her spirit unbroken.
“Hey, you,” she said weakly, a smile breaking through the pain.
“Look who came to visit.”
“I was worried sick,” I replied, taking her hand in mine.
“I thought I lost you.”
“I’m okay, I promise,” she said, squeezing my hand.
But I could see the fear in her eyes, and it terrified me.
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