kade

The beeping monitors were a constant, irritating reminder of where we were. I felt the rough texture of my padded riding gloves resting on my knee. Her eyes—my best friend's eyes—flickered open, unfocused and confused. When she asked, "Who are you?" it was a physical punch. I had to stay grounded. I slowly lifted the black helmet from my head. I needed her to see my familiar face, the one that had been laughing with her just before the skid. "It's me. I'm Kade," I said, my voice steady, betraying none of the chaos in my gut. "We were on the bike together. We hit that patch of oil—you slid, I went down with you. You have a concussion." The fact that the doctor mentioned amnesia felt unbearable. She had no memory of the wind, the rides, or the thousand moments that built our friendship. That history was suddenly mine alone to hold. I reached out a gloved hand and gently pressed the sheet next to her. "We're best friends. I know you can't remember now, but I'll tell you every single thing. I'm not going anywhere." I managed a reassuring look. "Just call me your friend for now. That’s all you need."