CHAPTER 152: THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US

The door creaked open, and Artur stepped inside.

His room—simple, familiar—felt foreign now. Too quiet. Too still. Like it knew something had changed.

He walked in without turning on the light.

His hands moved on instinct—pulling the small travel bag from beneath his bed, placing it gently on the sheets.

He opened his closet, grabbed the essentials: shirts, jeans, that sweater Billy always stole on cold nights and claimed as his own.

He held it in his hands a moment longer than the others.

His breath trembled as he folded it carefully and placed it at the top.

The drawer next—he opened it, searching for something. Then he paused.

Tucked beneath the neatly folded clothes was a faded photograph—one Mr. Dand had taken without them knowing.

Billy and Artur, sitting under the tree by the lake. Billy’s head tilted back, laughing. Artur looking at him like he was the only thing worth seeing.

Artur stared at it for a long moment.

Then he slipped it into his bag—close, safe.

No hesitation this time—he turned, grabbed the bag, and stepped out.

Glancing around the room one last time, he moved to the window.

The same one he used to sit by when he couldn’t sleep. The one Billy had stood in front of, that last day, saying goodbye.

The fields beyond were painted with morning gold now.

He closed his eyes.

"Just wake up," he whispered into the stillness.

He turned, grabbed his bag, and stepped out—no pause this time.

The front door opened softly.

Artur stepped out, the travel bag slung over one shoulder. His steps were slow but steady, like the ground was fragile beneath him.

The sky had barely warmed with light. That in-between hour—too late for night, too early for day. Birds stirred in the distance, and mist still clung low to the fields.

Mr. Dand stood by the fence, one hand resting on the post. He turned as Artur approached.

Neither of them spoke right away.

Then Mr. Dand offered a small, quiet nod.

"You sure you’re ready?"

Artur met his father’s gaze—not quite steady, but firm.

"No," he said honestly. "But I need to be."

A small, understanding smile tugged at the corners of Mr. Dand’s mouth.

"Drive safe. Call me when you get there."

Artur hesitated. Then stepped forward and hugged him—tight and sudden.

Mr. Dand stiffened in surprise, then exhaled slowly as his arms wrapped around Artur. His chin rested lightly on his son’s shoulder, a tremble in the grip giving away more than words ever could.

"He’ll be alright," he said gently. "If anyone can find their way back... it’s Billy."

Artur held on a moment longer.

He stepped back slowly, breath catching gave a faint nod, and without another word, walked to the car.

The bag landed with a soft thud in the backseat. slid behind the wheel, and sat still for a few seconds—hands on the wheel, eyes staring out across the empty path ahead.

Then the engine hummed to life.

Mr. Dand watched him go.

Dust rose in the early light, curling in the rearview mirror like smoke from something burned and buried. The road ahead bent sharply—just like everything else.

And in the stillness left behind, the wind whispered gently through the branches.

The road stretched long and winding, with fields turning to hills, hills into tree-shadowed turns.

Artur kept both hands on the wheel, posture tight.

The radio was off. The hum of the engine and the faint rumble of tires on the road were the only sounds in the car.

But in his head, it wasn’t quiet.

He replayed everything. Every word Billy said that night. Every moment he didn’t say enough.

"If I could stay... if it were only up to me... I would."

He clenched the steering wheel tighter, knuckles pale.

Outside, the trees blurred into one another. The sun filtered through in gold flashes. It should’ve been beautiful. It barely registered.

He glanced at the passenger seat—empty—but somehow, not.

He remembered Billy sitting there on their first drive back from the market. Arms crossed, pretending not to be curious. Sneaking side-glances when he thought Artur wasn’t looking.

Artur swallowed hard and looked back at the road.

His chest felt full of something he couldn’t name.

Regret?

Hope?

Fear that he might be too late?

"Please wake up," he whispered aloud. "Just... let me say it this time."

The road curved again. The signs changed.

The city was getting closer.

And so was everything he hadn’t been ready to face.

The city lights were just beginning to bleed into the windows when Artur walked in, the smell of antiseptic sharp in his nose.

His hand stilled mid-motion at the front desk—dressed in a plain jacket, hair a little messy from the drive. The nurse behind the counter glanced up from her clipboard.

"Can I help you?"

He nodded once, his voice low.

"I’m here to see Leon Sandoval. He’s in recovery."

She flipped through a chart, then motioned toward the elevator.

"Third floor. Room 208."

"Thanks."

The doors slid open with a dull chime.

Artur stepped into a quiet corridor washed in warm, evening light. His steps slowed as he passed each door, scanning the numbers.

205.

206.

207.

Then he stopped.

208.

His breath caught, hand frozen just above the handle. The small card by the door read: Leon Sandoval – Postoperative Monitoring.

He didn’t open it.

He just stood there.

Like if he opened that door, something inside him might break.

His heart beat so hard, it was difficult to hear anything else. Until—

"Excuse me?"

He turned quickly.

Camila stood just behind him, holding a paper bag—probably dinner from downstairs. Her tone had been polite, but her eyes scanned him with a flicker of confusion.

Artur parted his lips, tried to speak, but it took him a second.

"You’re Camila... right?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Do I... know—"

She stopped.

Took a half-step closer.

Her eyes widened.

"Wait. Are you—?"

He gave a small nod. Barely.

"Artur."

Camila blinked hard, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Then her face softened—not surprise anymore, but something else.

"He’s inside," she said gently.

"How is he?" Artur asked.

"He hasn’t woken up yet," Camila admitted. "But the doctor said his vitals are stable. They’re still hopeful."

Artur nodded once. His throat was tight again. He looked at the door.

"I... I just needed to see him."

Camila smiled faintly—warm, a little sad.

"Then go in. He’ll know you’re here."

She stepped aside.

Artur stood there one second longer.

Silence thickened as he reached for the door handle... and slowly pushed it open.

The soft hum of machines underscored the antiseptic chill of the room.

Fluorescent light bled across white tile and pale linen, casting faint blue shadows on Billy’s still face.

A monitor blinked steadily, each beat syncing with the faint rhythm of Billy’s heart.

He lay still on the hospital bed. Eyes closed. Skin pale but peaceful.

His hair was slightly tousled, and a thin tube ran beneath his nose. The IV line tapped gently against the stand when the air stirred.

The door creaked as Artur stepped in.

He didn’t move quickly. He couldn’t.

The sight of Billy—so still, so unlike the version burned into his memory—made something deep in his chest ache. He let the door fall closed behind him.

Each step forward was quiet, cautious. Like he was afraid to break the silence. Or maybe he didn’t trust his legs.

He reached the side of the bed and stood there.

Looking down.

Eyes tracing every detail. The faint bruising along Billy’s wrist where the needle sat. The way his fingers twitched slightly in sleep—or dream.

Artur’s lips parted, then closed.

He couldn’t speak.

He just looked at him. Long enough to feel everything at once—relief, regret, longing, fear.

Then... slowly... he sat.

The chair creaked under his weight as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced tightly. His throat worked, and for a long time, he just stared at Billy’s hand resting gently on the blanket.

"You look like you’re just... sleeping," he whispered finally.

"Like if I said your name, you’d open your eyes. Look at me like you used to."

His voice cracked. He didn’t try to hide it.

"I said go. And you did. But I didn’t mean go like this."

He wiped at his face, impatiently, like even the tears were betraying him.

"I should’ve told you I loved you... not when you were walking away, but before you had the chance to."

His gaze fell to Billy’s chest—the faint rise and fall.

Still breathing.

Still here.

Artur reached forward, gently—one trembling hand settling on Billy’s fingers. Just enough to feel him. To know he was real.

"I’m here now," he whispered. "And I’m not leaving again. So don’t you dare..."

His breath hitched.

"...don’t you dare leave me behind."

He didn’t speak again after that.

Just sat there in the quiet. His hand still on Billy’s. Waiting. Watching. Hoping.