Silent Vow - The Breath Between Beeps

The world didn’t shatter with a scream.

It broke with silence.

No warning. No chaos. Just one missed moment — one Kai would never forgive himself for.

He never made it to the café.

By the time he finished Mr. Grimor’s corrections and sprinted halfway across the city, the chairs were stacked, the lights were off, and Cyntia was gone.

Gone, but not dead.

Not yet.

⸻

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and fake citrus.

Too clean. Too calm.

Kai sat alone in the ICU room, elbows on his knees, eyes on the monitor that blinked without mercy. Beep. Beep. Beep. Each beat reminding him she was still here — still breathing — but not really with him.

Cyntia lay motionless, tubes taped to her skin, her lashes still casting shadows on her cheeks. She looked like she was just asleep. Like she might turn her head and mumble something about burnt rice or forgotten lunchboxes.

But the silence kept answering for her.

He hadn’t spoken in hours.

A gentle knock stirred him. Nurse Belen entered — middle-aged, kind, the one who hadn’t treated him like just another visitor.

“You haven’t eaten,” she said softly.

Kai didn’t respond.

She walked over and placed a folded blanket over the back of his chair. “I brought this… and some water. You should sleep a little. It’s not going to help her if you collapse.”

Kai’s voice, when it finally came, was rough. “Will she wake up?”

Belen hesitated. “There’s no internal damage. But trauma like this… sometimes the body survives what the mind doesn’t know how to return from.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “She’s stable. That’s a start.”

He didn’t move.

She nodded quietly and left him to the machines.

⸻

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. He wasn’t sure.

A plastic bag sat on the small table. Her belongings — returned by the hospital. Kai opened it with trembling fingers: her watch, her bracelet, a keychain he’d bought her from a vending machine.

Her phone.

He turned it on. No passcode.

She never locked it from him.

But when the screen lit up, his stomach twisted.

Empty.

Not a single photo.

Not a single message.

He scrolled through everything — gallery, messages, notes. All wiped clean.

No “See you soon!” texts. No voice notes. No saved recipes. Not even their chat history from last night.

He checked the backup folder. It was disabled.

That’s not her.

Cyntia was forgetful, yes — but she was a hoarder of memories. She saved everything. Even screenshots of old memes and grocery lists from months ago. She would never delete this.

He glanced back at her, her skin pale against the sterile lighting.

“Why?” he whispered.

⸻

The door opened again, and this time the footsteps were slower, more hesitant.

Mira stepped inside — black turtleneck, tired eyes, hair tied back. She looked like she hadn’t slept either.

“I heard,” she said. “I shouldn’t be here, but… I wanted to check in.”

Kai didn’t look at her.

“She wasn’t the type,” Mira said, voice low. “To do this.”

He still didn’t speak.

“I mean… she was bright. Kind. Strong.”

“She was,” he said finally. “And this doesn’t make sense.”

Mira sat in the second chair beside him, setting down two cups of coffee. One slid toward him. “I don’t want to sound like I’m reaching, but—do you think someone… pushed her to this?”

Kai’s eyes flicked to her. Sharp. Alert.

“I mean…” Mira hesitated. “I heard from someone at campus that she’d been meeting strange people. That she got more… closed off. It could’ve been anything. But… I just thought you should know.”

⸻

Silence settled again.

Mira stood. “You don’t have to go through this alone, you know.”

“I already am.”

She gave him a long look. Then left.

⸻

The sky outside had turned bruised purple. Kai leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the bed, hands clasped over Cyntia’s.

Her fingers didn’t squeeze back.

His voice trembled for the first time that day.

“You were the only reason I believed anything could still be good.”

He closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”