I woke up to the sound of machines beeping and the sharp smell of a hospital. My head was pounding, and my whole body felt sore. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The room was bright and clean, with furniture that looked too fancy for any hospital I'd ever seen.
At first, I didn't know where I was, but then the memories came rushing back. A man in a hoodie, my bag being snatched, me chasing him, the blinding headlights, and the car…
My heart dropped. My hands flew to my stomach, shaking. "No… no, no," I whispered, panic rising in my chest. "My baby… where's my baby?"
Someone moved beside me. A woman was sitting in a chair next to my bed. She had her head resting on her arms, but she sat up quickly when she heard my voice. She looked neat and professional, with a kind face.
"You're awake," she said softly. There was relief in her voice, but I didn't care. All I cared about was my baby.
"What happened to my baby?" I asked, my voice breaking as I clutched the blanket.
Her face fell. She looked like she didn't know what to say. "I'll get the doctor," she said quietly and hurried out of the room.
The silence that followed was unbearable. My chest felt tight, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I didn't know how much time had passed before the door opened again.
The woman returned with a doctor, two male nurses, and two men. One of them stood out immediately. He was tall, wearing an expensive suit, and his face was calm but cold. I recognized him—he was the last person I saw before I blacked out.
The other man looked older. His face was pale, and his eyes were red and swollen like he'd been crying for a long time.
The doctor stepped closer to me, his face serious but kind. "Miss Villanueva," he said carefully.
I gripped the blanket tighter, my heart racing.
"You were in a car accident," he said. "You've been unconscious for three days." He hesitated for a moment, then added softly, "I'm so sorry, but you lost the baby."
His words felt like a knife to my chest. I stared at him, waiting for him to say it wasn't true, but he didn't.
"No…" I whispered, shaking my head. "No, that's not true. My baby is fine. I felt it…" My voice broke, and tears streamed down my face.
The older man stepped closer, his hands shaking. "I'm so sorry," he said, his voice trembling. "I didn't see you. I didn't mean to… Please, forgive me." Tears rolled down his face, but I couldn't look at him.
The grief was too much. It felt like my whole world was crashing down. I started sobbing, unable to stop the pain in my chest.
I glanced at the man in the suit. He was just standing there, watching me with a blank expression, saying nothing.
Anger bubbled up inside me, cutting through my pain. "Why?!" I screamed, my voice shaking. "Why did this happen? It's not fair!"
The nurses rushed to my side, trying to calm me down. I barely noticed when someone pressed something cold against my arm. My vision started to blur, and my body felt heavy again.
The last thing I saw before everything went black was the man in the suit, still standing there, silent and unmoving.
——————
I opened my eyes to the stillness of the room. My body felt heavy, my muscles sore, but none of it compared to the ache in my chest. That pain was unbearable.
The doctor came in, his expression careful, his voice soft. He explained everything again—how the accident caused complications, how they couldn't save my baby. He apologized, over and over, but nothing he said mattered.
"You've been through a lot," he said gently. "Therapy can help you cope with what's happened."
I nodded, but his words didn't sink in. Therapy? How could talking to someone fix this? My baby was gone, and nothing could change that.
When the doctor left, the silence crept back in, heavier than before. The man by the door hadn't moved. He stood there, calm and quiet, like he belonged in charge of the world.
He stepped closer, his hands shoved into his pockets. "You're going to do the therapy," he said, his voice firm. It wasn't a suggestion.
I glared at him, my throat raw from crying. "Why do you even care?" I spat. "You don't know me."
He didn't flinch. His voice stayed steady, almost cold. "I'm responsible for what happened," he said. "I can't change that, but I can make sure you get the help you need."
I wanted to yell at him, to tell him to leave, but I didn't have the strength.
"I'll take care of everything," he continued. "The therapy, the hospital bills—whatever you need."
"Why?" I whispered, barely holding it together. "Why are you doing this?"
His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe? It was gone before I could tell for sure.
"Because it's the right thing to do," he said simply. "And because you don't have a choice. You'll go to therapy. You'll get better. That's final."
I stared at him, stunned into silence. His words were sharp, but there was something behind them. Something real.
He turned to leave but stopped at the door. "I'll check on you tomorrow," he said before walking out.
The room felt colder after he was gone. I stared at the ceiling, his words replaying in my mind. Who was he? And why did he care so much?
I didn't know the answers, but one thing was clear—my life would never be the same.