The Space Between Life and Death

“They’ve lost a lot of blood—too much! They’re dying!”

The voice came from somewhere above me — frantic, urgent — but it sounded distant, like it was echoing underwater.

I blinked against the blinding hospital lights, my vision swimming in and out of focus. Pain burned through every inch of my body, sharp and alive, but the only thought in my head was him.

Liam.

“Where’s my husband?” I rasped, my voice cracking as tears slipped from the corners of my eyes. “Where—where’s Liam?”

No one answered. The doctors were shouting to each other, their voices overlapping — “BP’s dropping!” “We’re losing her!” “Get more O negative!” — but none of it made sense. None of it mattered.

I tried to lift my head, but a hand pressed down on my shoulder. “Ma’am, please stay still,” a nurse said, her face a blur behind the surgical mask.

“No,” I croaked, struggling against the straps. “My husband—he was with me—he’s hurt—please, I need to see him—”

A sharp sting pierced my arm, and the world tilted again. My body went heavy, my mind hazy. The noise faded into a dull hum.

“Don’t… sedate me…” I tried to say, but the words fell apart in my mouth.

The ceiling lights stretched into long, melting streaks as they wheeled me down a corridor. I could smell antiseptic, iron, and something else — something wrong.

Blood.

His blood.

Somewhere beyond the haze, I thought I heard his voice — faint, broken — calling my name. But it might’ve just been my mind playing cruel tricks.

Then everything went black again.

..................

When I woke, it was quiet. Too quiet.

The room was dimly lit, the steady beep of a monitor filling the silence. My throat was dry, my chest wrapped tightly in bandages. I blinked until the world came into focus — the white walls, the IV line in my arm, the faint ache that pulsed through my ribs.

And then I remembered.

The crash, the blood, his—my husband's voice.

I sat up too quickly, gasping at the pain that shot through me. My heart thudded against my ribs. “Liam,” I whispered.

The door opened softly, and a nurse stepped in. She froze when she saw me awake. “Mrs. Sinclair, please—”

“Where is he?” I demanded. “Where’s Liam?”

Her eyes darted away. That single, small movement sent a chill through me.

“He’s… in surgery,” she said finally. “He’s lost a lot of blood. They’re doing everything they can.”

My stomach twisted. “Doing everything they can?” I repeated, my voice rising. “He’s going to be fine, right? Tell me he’s going to be fine.”

The nurse hesitated. And that hesitation broke something inside me.

I turned my face away before the tears could fall. “Please… just tell me if he’s alive.”

She stepped forward, her tone soft. “He’s still fighting.”

Still fighting, that was all I needed to hear.

I sank back into the bed, covering my mouth with my shaking hand, and let the tears come silently.

He was alive. He was fighting.

That was enough, for now.

--------------

I must’ve fallen asleep again because when I opened my eyes next, the room had changed.

The air felt heavier, quieter — the kind of silence that pressed against your chest.

I didn’t know how long I’d been out, but the sun had already fallen and the windows were now, pale and washed out.

A doctor stood by the end of my bed, flipping through a chart. His face looked too calm, too practiced.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” he said softly when he noticed I was awake.

The way he said my name made my stomach drop.

“How long?” I asked, my voice hoarse. “How long have I been here?”

“Three days,” he said

Three days felt like a lifetime.

My hands trembled as I tried to sit up. “And Liam? Is he—”

The doctor exhaled slowly, lowering the chart. “Your husband is alive,” he said, and my chest loosened for half a second before he continued, “but he’s in a coma.”

The words hit me like a blow.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “No, that can’t be right. He was talking—he told me—” My voice broke. “He told me he loved me.”

The doctor looked at me with that pitying expression I already hated. “Sometimes the body shuts down to protect itself. We don’t know when — or if — he’ll wake.”

I couldn’t breathe. My chest burned as if someone was pressing a fist against it.

“Can I see him?” I managed to ask.

He hesitated again, then nodded. “Only for a few minutes.”

They wheeled me to his room, and when I saw him, the world tilted again.

Liam lay there, pale and still, his skin almost translucent under the fluorescent light. Tubes ran from his arms, machines hummed softly beside him, and his chest rose and fell in slow, mechanical rhythm.

He looked nothing like the man who had held me on the roadside and whispered I love you right before the crash.

I reached for his hand — cold, unmoving — and pressed it against my lips.

“Liam,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You promised me forever. You can’t leave me here alone.”

No answer. Just the steady, artificial beep that marked time between heartbeats.

I broke down then. Completely. Silent sobs wracking through my bandaged body until I couldn’t tell if the pain was physical or emotional anymore.

I didn’t even hear the door open until a voice — low, female — spoke behind me.

“Mrs. Sinclair.”

I turned.

And there she was — Eleanor Sinclair, his step mother.

Immaculate, as always, even here. Dressed in black silk, pearls at her throat, eyes sharp and cold enough to slice through the air.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” she repeated, stepping forward. “We need to talk.”