Anastasia's scream ripped through the sterile, lifeless hospital corridor, raw and feral, as if the agony inside her was trying to claw its way out. "No, NO! He CAN'T be gone!" she shrieked, her voice cracking, the words tasting like blood and despair on her tongue. The walls swallowed her cries, mocking her with their cold indifference.
Her knees buckled. The world tilted. One second she was standing; the next, she was crumbling, fingers digging into the tile floor as if she could anchor herself to reality. But reality was cruel. Reality had just stolen the one person she couldn't live without.
She didn't feel herself moving. One moment she was in the hallway; the next, she was staggering into the bathroom, her stomach rebelling violently. She heaved until there was nothing left inside her, not food, not breath, not hope. Just empty. Just broken. Her forehead rested against the cold porcelain, her sobs ricocheting off the walls, relentless, merciless.
When the nausea finally loosened its grip, she wiped her mouth with the back of her trembling hand, her body weak and shaking. She had to see him. Had to touch him one last time. Before he turned into nothing more than a body on a slab, before the warmth faded from his skin.
Her legs felt like lead as she stumbled back to his room. The wires, the beeping monitors—gone. It was eerily silent. Too silent. Her heart seized as her gaze locked onto him.
Bastian lay there, still and pale, his lips parted slightly, as if he was just sleeping. But he wasn't. He wasn't sleeping. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't here.
A choked sob tore out of her throat as she crossed the room, her body trembling violently. Her fingers ghosted over his cheek. Ice. He was already getting cold.
"No... please, baby, wake up," she whispered, crawling into the bed beside him, her body curling into his like she had done a thousand times before. Only this time, he didn't react. No warmth, no arms pulling her close, no heartbeat under her cheek. Just silence. Just death.
She pressed her face into his chest, inhaling deeply. He still smelled like him. Like home. Like everything she was about to lose forever.
Her eyelids grew heavy, exhaustion dragging her into a restless sleep filled with fragmented memories—Bastian's laughter, his touch, the way he used to say her name like it was his favorite sound.
A hand on her shoulder. Gentle, warm.
"Anastasia."
She stirred, eyelids fluttering open, heart slamming against her ribs as she looked up. For a brief, blissful moment, she thought it was him. But no. It was her father. Behind him, nurses stood in the doorway, their gazes heavy with pity.
"Ana, sweetheart... we have to go." His voice was soft but firm.
No. She wasn't leaving. She wasn't saying goodbye.
Her lips trembled as she looked down at Bastian's face, her fingers brushing against his slack jaw. "I love you," she whispered, pressing a desperate kiss to his lips. They were cold. Too cold. The finality of it sliced through her like a blade.
She couldn't stay. But she couldn't leave. If she left, it was real.
Her father guided her up gently, and she let him, her legs barely holding her. As she walked out, she fought the urge to turn back. If she did, she would never leave.
The funeral was suffocating. The air was thick with the scent of flowers and grief, the weight of sorrow pressing down on her chest like a vice. The sky was gray, heavy with impending rain, as if the universe itself was mourning him.
The church was packed, faces blurred by the fog of her own misery. Everyone was dressed in black. Everyone was whispering, crying. But all she could hear was the deafening silence where Bastian's voice used to be.
She stood at the open casket, staring down at the body that looked like him but wasn't. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. Like someone had stolen the fire that had made him who he was.
She clenched her jaw, the memory of that night playing on repeat in her head. The argument. The slammed door. The text from Britney. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.
Britney.
Her anger was a slow burn, simmering beneath her grief. This was her fault. That text. That stupid, manipulative text. The words had been a knife in Bastian's heart, and now he was gone. Because of her.
She reached into her bag and pulled out Bastian's football jersey—the one he had given her the night he told her he loved her. With trembling hands, she smoothed it out, pressing it against her chest before carefully tucking it into the casket. A piece of him. A piece of them.
But she couldn't part with the bracelet he had given her. She clutched it, running her thumb over the engraving. His promise. His love. It was the last thing she had of him. And she would never take it off.
Billy, Bastian's best friend, found her after the burial, his eyes rimmed with red, voice thick with emotion.
"He loved you, Ana. More than anything. You know that, right?"
Her throat tightened. "Yeah. I know."
"Then don't blame yourself. Don't let this consume you."
But it already had.
Billy kindly offered her a ride home as they didn't want to stay any longer but the whole ride was a blur. The house felt like a graveyard, empty and cold. She walked straight to her room, stripping out of her funeral dress and pulling on Bastian's hoodie. It still smelled like him—woodsy, warm spices, the faintest hint of citrus. She curled up on the bed, clutching the fabric to her face, inhaling deeply as hot tears slid down her cheeks.
She wasn't sure how long she lay there, but exhaustion eventually pulled her under. And then—
BAM.
A sharp voice.
"Enough! It's time for you to accept responsibility for your actions!"
Her eyes snapped open, heart pounding.
That was her father's voice. And he was furious.
She shot upright, blood roaring in her ears. She had never heard him yell like that before.
Scrambling off the bed, she rushed to the top of the stairs just in time to hear another voice—a voice that sent ice through her veins.
Britney.
Anastasia's hands clenched the railing, white-knuckled, as she stared down at the scene unfolding below.
Her father loomed over Britney, his face a mask of barely contained fury.
"You don't get to play the victim," he growled. "You think I don't know what you did? Do you think I don't know the truth?"
Britney's face paled, her lips parting as if to protest, but he cut her off.
"Did you send that text? If you did, Bastian was in an accident because of YOUR stupid little games!"
A deafening silence fell over the room.
Anastasia's heart stopped.
Britney swayed on her feet, her face crumbling. "I—I didn't—"
"DON'T LIE TO ME!" her father roared.
Anastasia's breath hitched, her entire body vibrating with barely restrained rage.
Britney opened her mouth, but no words came out.
She knew.
She was caught.
And Anastasia wasn't going to let her get away with it.