(Few minutes ago),
We were laughing about Mr. Davies's perpetually disappointed expression when Rishi's phone rang, jarringly loud in the low hum of the cafeteria. He glanced at the screen, and his easy grin vanished. His face went instantly pale.
"It's... it's the Petersons' number," he mumbled, referring to Atlas's parents. "But why would they call me now?"
He answered, bringing the phone to his ear. As he listened, the color drained completely from his face. His hand started to shake so badly he had to grip the edge of the table.
Chloe and I instantly stopped talking, our playful mood dissolving into cold apprehension.
Rishi didn't say anything for a long minute. He just listened, his eyes wide and fixed on some terrifying, unseen point across the room. When he finally spoke, his voice was a thin, strangled whisper.
"What? Atlas? On the highway? But... he was driving to the city today... He was fine yesterday! Oh God, no. The hospital? Which one?"
The whispered fragments were enough. Chloe gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth, her eyes welling up instantly. Atlas.
The brilliant, towering Atlas, who had just celebrated his acceptance to medical school. He was the victim of the highway accident they had just been discussing.
"I have to go," Rishi choked out, hanging up the phone and slamming it down on the table. He looked wildly between us.
"It was Atlas. He was the one in the hit-and-run. He's been in a coma since yesterday. His parents just found out, they're already there."
Chloe, usually so composed, let out a heart-wrenching sob. "My Atlas. I need to go. I need to see him."
Without another word, they grabbed their bags, their faces a mask of profound, devastating grief. They didn't even say goodbye to me; the news had ripped them out of the cafeteria and out of our reality. They were already halfway to the door, Rishi and Chloe's saddened and crying faces a horrifying tableau of unexpected tragedy.
I sat there, stunned, watching them rush out.
The connection was lost, replaced by a deafening silence. The man I had just silently prayed for his recovery—the stranger in the crash—was Atlas, my friend's brilliant, kind, handsome older brother. The same handsome older brother who was supposed to be starting his new life today.
A fresh wave of sorrow washed over me, deeper and more personal this time. The accident suddenly wasn't a vague news report; it was a brutal reality that had blindsided my friends. My heart ached for Chloe and Rishi, and for Atlas, lying unconscious miles away.
My internal monologue: This is truly awful. It can't be a coincidence that I heard about the crash, and now it's Atlas. I hope he makes it. I truly hope he pulls through.
I picked up my abandoned iced coffee, its sugary sweetness suddenly tasting like ash.
The sadness I felt for the injured man was now tinged with the familiar, icy fear that maybe nothing in the universe was truly random.