It was our last dinner out before Leon's trip to Alaska. He'd been buzzing about it for weeks, the kind of excitement that made his green eyes shine and his gestures a little more animated than usual. I'd teased him earlier in the day, telling him he looked like a kid about to go on his first school trip, but I was proud of him. He was tagging along with his chief—a career-making opportunity.

We chose a cozy Italian place downtown, one of those hidden gems where the walls were adorned with mismatched frames, and the smell of garlic and herbs wrapped around you like a warm blanket. Leon picked it. He always had a knack for finding places that felt like home, even if we were miles away from it.

The table between us was cluttered with half-empty wine glasses and the remnants of a shared tiramisu. He leaned back in his chair, his laughter bubbling over as he told me about his chief's obsession with survival gear.

"I swear, this man has a gadget for everything," he said, shaking his head. "Last week, he showed me a spoon that doubles as a fishing rod. Who needs that?"

"Someone going to Alaska, apparently," I quipped, smirking.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a mock-serious expression. "If you ask me, I think he's secretly auditioning for one of those survival reality shows. I wouldn't be surprised if he brought a flare gun to dinner."

We both laughed, the kind of laughter that fills the space between two people who know each other inside out. I reached across the table, brushing a stray crumb off his shirt. "Just promise me you won't come back with one of those bear hats. You know, the ones with the little ears?"

"Oh, you'd love that," he shot back, grinning. "Me, looking rugged and wild. It's irresistible."

"Rugged? Sure. Wild? Only if you count the time you tried to chop wood at the cabin and almost took out your knee," I teased.

He chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, I get it. No bear hats. But I'm bringing you something cool. Glacier water, maybe?"

"Romantic," I said dryly, though the corners of my mouth tugged up into a smile.

We lingered there, stretching the evening as though neither of us wanted it to end. I watched him talk, taking in every detail—the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he gestured with his hands when he got excited. I didn't know it then, but I'd spend countless nights replaying this moment, trying to hold onto the sound of his voice, the warmth in his laughter.

***

I don't know why the memory of that drive home clings to me so vividly. It was quiet yet were content. Leon hummed softly along to the radio, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. The bridge stretched out before us, its iron arches glowing under the amber light of the streetlamps. I remember glancing at him, a small smile playing on my lips as I thought about how I'd tease him when he came back from Alaska, frostbitten and complaining about the cold.

That's when it happened.

It started with a jolt. The car lurched to the side, and Leon's humming stopped abruptly.

"What the—" he muttered, gripping the wheel tighter.

The dashboard lit up with warning signals. The brakes screeched, a horrible metallic sound that made my heart lurch.

"Leon?" My voice was thin, barely audible over the chaos.

"I've got it," he said, though his voice was tight, strained. He yanked the wheel to the left, trying to steady us, but the car wasn't responding.

The guardrails loomed closer. My breath caught in my throat as the car veered off course, the wheels skidding against the wet road.

"Hold on!" Leon shouted.

The impact came first—a deafening crash as the car tore through the guardrail. Then, weightlessness. The sensation of falling was surreal, the world spinning in slow motion as we plunged toward the dark, icy water below.

I don't remember hitting the water. I don't remember the cold or the silence that must have followed. All I remember is the sound of Leon's voice, calling my name one last time.

***

When I woke up, it was weeks later. The room was sterile, filled with the low hum of machines and the faint antiseptic scent of a hospital. My head throbbed, my body felt foreign, but miraculously, there were no major injuries—nothing beyond the severe blow to my head that had left me in a coma.

Leon wasn't there.

It took days before I could piece together the fragments of what had happened. The doctors told me it was a miracle I'd survived at all, that the accident had been caused by a sudden malfunction in the car. Something about a critical failure that sent it off track, breaking through the bridge and plunging us into the water below.

Leon hadn't made it. 

My Leon didn't make it. 

The words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else's story. Not mine. Not us. I kept repeating them in my head, trying to make sense of something so senseless. He was gone. The man who could find humour in anything, who could light up a room with his crooked smile, who promised me he'd come back from Alaska with stories about glaciers and ridiculous survival gear—he was gone.

And I was still here.

Why?

The guilt hit me first, sharper than any physical pain. It clawed its way through my chest, tearing me apart from the inside. I was alive, breathing, sitting in this sterile, white-washed room, while he—he was somewhere cold, somewhere dark. Alone.

The memories of the crash replayed in my mind, a cruel, looping nightmare. I should've done something. Said something. Why didn't I yell louder? Why didn't I grab the wheel?

They said I was lucky. Lucky? The word made me sick. How could anyone look at me, at this hollow shell of a person, and call me that? Waking up felt like a curse, not a blessing.

Flashbacks would drag me back to the bridge, to the helplessness of that night. Loud noises made me jump, and I couldn't bring myself to cross another bridge, let alone look at the water. Sleep became a battle I rarely won.

"Leon, switch with me," I'd said earlier that night, lazily stretching my legs after dinner. "I'm too full to drive."

He'd laughed, brushing my request aside. "You're always too full to drive. Relax, I've got this."

I should've driven.

That thought burrowed deep into my mind, gnawing at every shred of logic or reason. If I'd driven, if I'd just ignored the fullness in my stomach, maybe—maybe the car wouldn't have gone off the bridge. Maybe he'd still be here.

Night after night I'd curl into myself, the IV tugging uncomfortably at my arm. My hands trembled as I clutched at the hospital blanket trying to hold onto something, anything, could keep me from falling apart completely.

But it didn't matter how tightly I held on. He was still gone.

I thought about the water, black and endless. About how I'd woken up here, in this hospital bed, while he—did he even have a chance?

Every time I closed my eyes, and all I could see was his face—his eyes wide with determination, his jaw tight as he fought to control the car. He was trying to save us. To save me.

And I couldn't save him.

"I should've been the one," I whispered to the empty room, my voice cracking under the weight of the words. "It should've been me."

The walls didn't answer, but the silence pressed down like a judgement.

***

In the quiet moments, almost a year after the accident, I still found myself replaying our last dinner over and over again. I clung to the memory of Leon's voice, the warmth in his smile as he teased me over dessert, the way his fingers brushed mine when he reached for the bill. It was all I had left of him—a fleeting snapshot of a life we were supposed to have but never got to live.

The guilt was still there, suffocating and relentless. The pain—like a deep, unhealing wound—never faded.

I stared at my untouched shot glass, tracing my fingertip along its rim. Across from me, Rayan was gulping down his liquor, the empty glass clinking softly as he passed it back to the bartender. He gestured for another, and I watched as he drained it just as quickly. He was going to get too drunk at this rate, but I didn't stop him.

It was his idea to talk over drinks, like we always did whenever we clashed. It had become a ritual of sorts—one born out of years of being colleagues and friends, navigating the highs and lows of a professional partnership that had seen its fair share of disagreements. This wasn't the first time we had sat across from each other, sorting through the mess of our tangled lives with alcohol as our mediator.

But tonight Rayan seemed troubled beyond my reach, his eyes distant, jaw set like he was fighting some internal battle. I understood that look far too well. We both carried things we couldn't say out loud, burdens we chose to shoulder silently. But tonight, I couldn't pretend it wasn't weighing on me.

I felt like I was doing something wrong to him. No, I knew I was.

I should tell him how I really feel about this—about us. He would understand. Rayan had always been the understanding one. After all, Aunt Monika had been the one to set us up, insisting it would be good for me to have someone like him by my side. And he'd agreed. He'd agreed to everything, even to my fumbling, half-hearted attempts at connection.

He'd been there for me, standing steadfast at my lowest. He'd pulled me back from the brink when I didn't think I could go on. He held me up when my legs buckled under the weight of grief. He gave me his shoulder to cry on, his unwavering presence when the world felt unbearably empty.

But keeping this up, this fragile illusion, felt like a betrayal. Like I was leading him on. And that was so unfair to someone who'd done nothing but give.

I glanced at him, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against the bar as he waited for his next drink. The guilt surged again, but this time it wasn't for Leon.

It was for Rayan.

He didn't deserve this—me, haunted and half a person, trying to hold onto someone who wasn't there anymore. He didn't deserve the hesitation in my touch, the way I flinched when he got too close, or the way I pretended not to notice the hopeful glances he thought I wouldn't catch.

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat refusing to budge. My fingers curled into a fist around the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

"Rayan," I started, my voice barely audible over the din of the bar.

He looked up, eyes heavy with a mixture of concern and weariness. "Yeah?"

My resolve faltered under the weight of his gaze, but I forced myself to hold it. I owed him that much.

"I..." The words stuck, choking me. I wanted to tell him everything—about Leon, about how I wasn't ready, about how it felt like I was betraying both of them by even trying. I tried again, the words sharper this time. "I have something to tell you."

His expression shifted, his glass paused midway to his lips. Then he shrugged, his slurred voice cutting through the space between us. "Me too." He gestured for me to hold on, tilting his head back as he gulped down another glass. "Who goes first?"

I sighed, gesturing toward him. "You go first."

He nodded, his drunken movements exaggerated, a sloppy smile tugging at his lips. "You're gonna love this. Or hate it. Or both."

I watched as he leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was about to tell me the secret of the universe. His breath reeked of liquor, but his tone was serious, almost somber.

"So, Nina's place, yeah? You remember last month? When we were all there?"

I nodded slowly, my stomach twisting with unease.

"Well." He paused dramatically, his hand gripping the edge of the bar as though steadying himself for what he was about to say. "I saw something there. And I'm not talking about her creepy collection of porcelain dolls. Though, let me tell you, those are a close second."

"Rayan." My voice sharpened, but he ignored me, his eyes wide and glassy with drunken conviction.

"I saw... someone," he whispered, dragging out the last word like it was some forbidden truth.

I blinked, half-expecting him to burst into laughter, but his expression remained unsettlingly serious. "Someone? Who?"

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper, as if sharing a secret. "I saw someone like... Leon."

The words hit me like a punch in the gut, a cold shiver racing down my spine. "What?"

He shrugged, his eyes distant. "Yeah, I know. It was freaky. Looked right at me, like it knew me. And he just..." Rayan hesitated, shaking his head. "He didn't say anything. Just... watched."

My breath hitched, caught between disbelief and a raw surge of hope. "What do you mean, watched?"

He shrugged again, his voice lower now. "Just stood there. Like he was... like he was trying to tell me something. I don't know. Maybe I was seeing things."

I leaned back, my stomach tightening. "Did you... say anything?"

He shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping. "What could I say? It just... looked like him. Like Leon."

I forced a bitter laugh, the sound rough in the quiet bar. "That's just... impossible."

"Maybe." Rayan's eyes searched mine, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and vulnerability. "But it felt real. It looked like him, I swear."