The room was eerily quiet, broken only by the rhythmic beep of machines—the proof that she was still alive.
Parin lay motionless on the bed, her face ghostly pale, her lashes casting faint shadows. It was impossible to tell if she was merely sleeping, or lost somewhere far deeper.
Manida hadn't left her side for three days and nights. Her glasses sat crooked on her nose, her eyes glassy from exhaustion. An open book lay unread beside her hand.
She just kept holding Parin's fingers, gripping them as if that alone could pull her back.
"Parin… you promised me," she whispered hoarsely, tears trembling in her eyes. "You said we'd go to Phuket together… that you'd show me your favorite sea. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"
Only the cold mechanical beeping answered her.
By dusk, the doctor entered, his expression grave.
"Professor, her vitals are stable for now, but…" He hesitated, then continued carefully, "The head trauma and internal bleeding may leave lasting complications. Even if she wakes, her memory—or motor functions—could be impaired."
Manida's breath caught. "What do you mean?"
He sighed. "She may not remember you. Or… she may never be quite the same."
Manida's grip on his sleeve tightened. "And if she does wake up?"
He paused, eyes full of pity. "Then be prepared—for anything."
Later that night, the hallway was silent. Manida leaned against the cold wall, struggling to breathe.
She wanted to scream, to curse fate for its cruelty—but all she could do was return to the bedside and press a kiss to Parin's fingers.
"It's okay," she whispered through tears. "Even if you wake up and forget me… even if you can't smile like before… I'll still stay with you."
Her tears fell onto Parin's hand, but there was no response.
Parin remained still—trapped somewhere in the depths of sleep, untouched by the world's noise or grief.
And yet, beneath the dim hospital light, her chest rose faintly. Her lips—colorless for days—seemed to quiver ever so slightly, as if a trace of blood was returning.