Every Night, I See You

The moment my foot steps out onto the snow, it sinks deep into the drift, disappearing beneath the cold, white blanket. I feel the chill creep up my ankle as the snow seeps into my boots, soaking my pants, but strangely, it doesn't feel as uncomfortable as it should. It's cold, yes—but there's something soft and comforting about it, something serene. Like the snow has a life of its own, and I'm a part of it, just for a moment.

I smile to myself, a small, quiet smile that feels warmer than it should in this biting cold, and I begin to make my way down the street. The snow crunches beneath my boots with each step, the sound muffled by the layers of white around me. It's peaceful here—like the whole world has quieted down for just a little while.

But then, as I take a sharp turn at the first corner, I bump into someone. My umbrella shifts, tilting upward instinctively to avoid the collision.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, my voice slightly muffled by the cold air.

"Hannah?" comes a familiar voice, and I freeze for a second, recognizing the warmth and softness in it.

I look up, and standing before me, a little taken aback by the sudden encounter, is June.

"Oh, hey," I say.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"On the way to the grocery store."

"I see." His gaze drops to my feet—completely soaked. My pants cling to my legs, drenched from the snow. His brow furrows. "I'll come with you."

"Thanks," I reply with a shrug, trying to sound casual, though my heart is already thudding in my chest.

There's something hesitant in the way he walks beside me. A slight awkwardness, a silence that stretches between us as we move together through the snowy street. The city feels deserted—people tend to stay in during weather like this, especially with the soldiers patrolling so heavily these days.

I break the silence. "Angela's been taking such good care of the refugee women. I really hope... I hope they find some peace, some healing, while they're staying with us."

June nods, his expression softening. 

"Yeah. Me too." He glances at me. "Are you all right now? I mean... after everything."

His voice is casual, but I hear the care beneath it. I feel it—in the way he stumbles over his words, in the nervous energy that seems to surface whenever we're alone. He's different when he's with me.

I can't help the small smile that creeps onto my face. A quiet jolt of joy rises in my chest.

"I'm perfectly fine now," I say. "So when's the next—"

The world erupts with a sharp, thunderous crack.

A gunshot.

My eyes go wide. June reacts instantly, grabbing my arms.

"Hannah—this way," he says, urgent but calm.

We duck behind a narrow alley at the edge of the street. My breath fogs in the cold air as we crouch low, watching from the shadows.

Across the street, soldiers close in on a group of people. Some are being dragged away. Captured.

My pulse races.

And just like that, the air shifts—thick with danger, with everything unspoken between us.

"Are they being captured for leaving the restricted areas?" I whisper, lowering my voice to the quietest thread.

"I guess so…" June's eyes stay fixed on the scene across the street. His jaw tightens. Then he turns to me. "Hannah, go back home. Alone."

"What?" I blink, shaking my head. "No. It's dangerous. You shouldn't—"

He stops me with a look—steady, calm, quietly resolute. That familiar, reassuring smile touches his lips.

"Use the back street—just go straight and take the narrow exit near the store. You'll make it back safely. You know the way, right?"

I stare at him. His eyes are full of something deeper than just concern—something sincere, something unshakable.

I know June.

He can't walk away from this. Not when people need help.

And even though he doesn't say it, I already know what he's about to do.

"Okay," I say softly. I pause, words catching in my throat. "But—" I stop myself, bite down the fear. "Never mind. I'll go."

"Good," he says, his smile barely shifting, but his eyes don't let go of mine.

Then, without another word, I turn.

I know he's still watching me—making sure I take the right path, making sure I'm safe. Each step I take feels heavier than the last. I walk faster, trying not to look back, trying not to be the weight that holds him down.

But the moment I'm out of sight, the tears come. Silent and sudden.

They trail down my cheeks, warm against the cold.

It's his job, his calling—to risk everything to protect others. That's who he is.

But it still breaks something in me.

Because I care. More than I should, more than I want to admit.

Because I love him. Genuinely. 

And the fear of losing him tastes too real in my mouth.

She's crying.

Julian lowers the iPad from his hands and slowly sits up in the chair, its back pressed against the sterile white wall. He stares at Grace—lying motionless on the hospital bed, eyes closed, the oxygen tube secured around her mouth.

Tears stream silently down her cheeks.

"Grace...?" he calls softly, leaning forward.

His chest tightens. The sight of her—so still, so vulnerable—makes something inside him twist painfully. 

Why is she crying?

He glances around the dim hospital room, as if the answer might be waiting in some quiet corner. But the only sound is the soft beeping of machines and the gentle hum of fluorescent light overhead.

Then he hears it again—the persistent buzz of her phone on the bedside table. It's been vibrating on and off for a while now, but he's ignored it, thinking it wasn't his place.

Now, it won't stop.

Reaching over, he picks it up. 

The screen lights up: .

Julian swipes the green icon.

"Hi, Harry."

There's a pause.

"Professor Julian?" Harry's voice is tinged with confusion.

"Yes, it's me." Julian glances at Grace, still unmoving, tears still falling. "Well, um…"

"You're with Grace right now?" Harry asks. "I was just calling about the major course assignment—it's due tomorrow and she wasn't answering, so I thought I'd—"

He cuts off.

Julian doesn't say anything right away. The silence stretches long enough for the truth to begin settling on the other end of the line.

"She's in the hospital," Julian says quietly. "She's unconscious."

There's a beat of silence.

"She's... unconscious?" Harry's voice is barely audible.

Julian exhales, rubbing his brow. "Yes. She was hit by a car earlier. She's stable, but… she hasn't woken up yet."

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then Harry speaks, his voice firmer. "Which hospital is she in?"

Julian glances at the clock on the wall. It's already past 11 p.m.

"Maybe you should come tomorrow—"

"No," Harry interrupts. "I'm coming now. Tell me which hospital."

"Oh no…" Harry breathes, stunned, as he steps through the hospital room door.

His eyes land on Grace—lying motionless on the bed, eyes closed, the soft hum of machines around her, and the oxygen tube secured gently over her mouth.

Julian rises from the chair.

"Harry," he says quietly.

Harry doesn't respond at first. He just stares, frozen, his face pale with disbelief. 

"How is this happening…" he murmurs, moving slowly toward the bed, like he's afraid to wake her—or confirm that this is real.

Julian watches, understanding the shock crashing through him. He remembers that same feeling—the disbelief, the hollowness in the chest. He remembers walking into this very room hours ago and feeling like the world had tipped sideways.

"I'll step out for a bit," Julian says gently. "Just to the restroom."

He walks past Harry, not waiting for a reply. He knows Harry needs space, a moment alone with Grace.

Out in the hallway, Julian presses the elevator button. It dings softly, doors opening with a sterile hush. He steps inside, rides down in silence, and walks through the hospital lobby to the main exit.

Outside, the world feels almost too still.

It's pitch black beyond the lamplights, but snowflakes fall gently from the sky, drifting like soft ash in the cold. The ground glows in patches where the lights catch the snow, casting long, silver shadows.

Julian exhales. His breath clouds in front of him in a pale mist.

His hands are cold. The winter air bites at his fingers and creeps beneath his coat. But somehow, the chill feels welcome. Clean. Real.

He looks up.

The night sky stretches out above him, quiet and endless. The same sky he once stood beneath with Hannah—words unspoken, hearts unsure.

And now, he stands beneath it again, alone, while Grace lies unconscious just floors above.

He closes his eyes for a moment.

Room 805, Late Night.

Harry sinks into the chair beside the hospital bed, his hands trembling. His eyes remain fixed on Grace—still, silent, and pale. She lies in a coma, her chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, the oxygen tube around her mouth the only sign of life.

"Grace... wake up," he whispers.