Eyes Open

The stale air of the hospital room clung to Archer like a second skin, thick with the scent of antiseptic and regret. He hadn't moved from the uncomfortable chair in what felt like an eternity, his gaze fixed on Hadley's still form. Every crack in the ceiling, every chip in the paint, had become intimately familiar.
His mother's exasperated sigh cut through the silence, a familiar prelude to a lecture he wasn't ready to hear. "Archer. You should go home. Get some rest."
He didn't even turn. "Not tired."
"You haven't moved from that chair in almost three hours." Her voice was soft, laced with a pity he couldn't stand.
"New personal record," he muttered, the words flat. He knew what she saw: a shell of the person he pretended to be. He knew what he saw: a life, perhaps, slipping away, and a chilling echo of another loss he'd never truly processed. This time, though, it felt different. This time, he was sure, it was his fault.