His breath caught in his throat. That voice.
"Dad?" he whispered, his head whipping toward the sound.
The sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nostrils, and the world around him shifted. The darkness faded, replaced by harsh fluorescent lights and the faint beeping of a heart monitor. A hospital room, small and suffocating.
And there he was.
And there he was.
Ethan's knees nearly buckled as he took a step forward, his heart pounding in his chest. His dad lay on the hospital bed, his once-broad shoulders now frail and sunken. Tubes snaked from his arms, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths.
The man who had once been larger than life, who could fix anything with his hands, who had a laugh that could fill a room—he looked so small.
"Ethan," his father rasped again, his lips barely moving. His voice was weak, but there was still that familiar warmth in it, that unshakable love.
"No," Ethan whispered, shaking his head. "No, no, no. This isn't real."
His chest tightened as he stumbled back a step, his eyes darting to the too-bright lights, the sterile tiles, the unforgiving hum of the machines. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not now.
The system must've screwed up. It had to be a glitch.
"Ethan," his father called again, softer this time.
Ethan squeezed his eyes shut, his hands balling into fists. "No. You're not… You're not really here. This isn't happening."
But when he opened his eyes, his dad was still there, watching him with those tired, kind eyes. The eyes that used to glow with life.
Ethan's chest heaved, and anger flared in his veins. Anger at the system, at himself, at the universe for doing this to him. "What kind of sick joke is this?! You think this is going to make me better at acting? You're out of your damn mind!"
He turned away, trying to block it all out. He didn't want to feel this. He didn't want to relive it.
But his father's voice, so faint, so fragile, broke through. "Ethan… don't run."
The words stopped him cold. His breath hitched, and his shoulders sagged as something sharp and painful clawed its way up his throat.
"I'm not running," he snapped, though his voice cracked. He bit down hard on his trembling lip, his nails digging into his palms. "I'm not running."
He turned back slowly, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a tidal wave. His dad was still there, his chest rising and falling with shallow effort, his hand twitching weakly on the bed.
Ethan's legs felt like lead, but he forced himself to move forward. He stopped just short of the bed, his eyes glued to the floor.
"It's not real," he murmured, his voice shaky. "You're not real."
But when his dad's hand twitched again, something in Ethan broke. He fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to hold himself together.
He couldn't do this. Not here. Not again.
"You weren't supposed to leave," Ethan blurted out, his voice rising, raw and desperate. "You weren't supposed to leave us!"
His dad's hand moved again, weaker this time, as if reaching for him. Ethan hesitated, his body trembling, before finally reaching out and taking it.
The warmth was faint, barely there, but it was enough.
Ethan clenched his jaw, his vision blurring. The words he'd kept buried for so long clawed their way to the surface, but he bit them back, shaking his head. "I can't. I can't do this."
His dad's lips moved, but no sound came out. It didn't matter. Ethan knew what he was saying. He always knew.
The dam broke.
"I'm sorry," Ethan choked out, the words tumbling out of him like a flood. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I thought I had time. I thought—"
His voice cracked, and he lowered his head, tears streaming down his face.
"I thought I'd get another chance," he whispered, his voice breaking completely.
"Dad… I—" His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, trying to force the words out. "I'm here."
His dad's eyes fluttered open, watery and unfocused, but they found Ethan's face and softened. "You… came back."
Ethan's legs finally moved, carrying him closer to the bed. He dropped to his knees beside it, his trembling hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching his dad's frail fingers.
"I… I should've been here sooner," he choked out. "I should've—"
"No… You're here now," his dad interrupted, his voice barely audible. "That's… what matters."
Ethan felt something in his chest crack wide open. He had spent years burying this, locking it away where it couldn't hurt him. But now, staring at his dad, everything he'd never said, everything he'd run from, came flooding back.
"I never got to tell you," Ethan said, his voice trembling. "I didn't… I didn't know how. I was stupid, and scared, and I thought I had time."
His dad's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. "You were… always so hard on yourself. Just like… me."
A tear slipped down Ethan's cheek, and he let it fall. There was no holding it back now.
"I looked up to you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I always did. Even when I acted like I didn't. You were my hero, Dad. You are my hero."
His dad's hand twitched, and Ethan finally took it, the warmth almost gone but still there, still his.
"I should've told you I loved you more. I should've said it every damn day. I was too proud or too stupid, and now—" His voice broke completely, and he couldn't finish.
His dad squeezed his hand, so faintly that Ethan almost missed it.
"I knew," his dad whispered. "I always knew."
The heart monitor's beeping slowed, each sound driving a stake deeper into Ethan's chest.
"No, don't go yet. Please, not yet," Ethan begged, his voice breaking into sobs.
His dad's eyes closed, his breathing growing shallower. "Don't… hold on to regret, Ethan. You've… got so much ahead of you. Live… your life. Be happy."
And then the beeping stopped.
Ethan's whole body shook, the grief swallowing him whole. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against his father's cold hand.
"I love you, Dad," he whispered, the words he'd never gotten to say finally breaking free. "I love you."
The world faded around him, the hospital room dissolving into darkness.
[Simulation complete. Final grade: 95%. Emotional depth achieved.]
Ethan didn't care about the grade. The ache in his chest felt too real, and his tears didn't stop.
For once, the system stayed silent.
[Feeling encompassed]