It had been week since Aryan regain his consciousness, not once he saw Marco's face.
Aryan sat on the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the pale blue curtains swaying slightly with the breeze. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his blanket, anxiety boiling under his skin.
"It's been a week," he muttered under his breath, frustration creeping into his tone. "Why hasn't he come? What could possibly be more important than your injured boyfriend?"
He had tried calling—repeatedly—but Marco's phone remained unreachable. No texts, no messages. Just silence.
The longer it stretched, the more unbearable it became.
Just then, Adam entered the room after settling the hospital bills. "Did you pack everything?"
Aryan nodded stiffly and followed his father out. Yet, just as they were about to exit the room, he hesitated. A strange sensation gripped his chest—a sense of being watched.
He turned around, eyes scanning the corridor behind them.
Empty.
