Two days after Isla walked away from me outside the diner, I woke with a feeling of dread so heavy it felt like a physical weight on my chest. Something was wrong. I knew it with a certainty that defied logic, a bone-deep knowledge that made my heart race and my palms sweat.

I reached for my phone, checking for messages even though I knew there wouldn't be any. Isla had been clear. She didn't want me to look for her. Didn't want me in her life.

But this feeling. I couldn't shake it. Couldn't ignore it. Couldn't go about my day pretending everything was normal when every instinct was screaming that something was terribly, catastrophically wrong.

I called in to work again, ignoring Karen's concerned questions. I couldn't focus on them, couldn't think about anything except finding Isla. Making sure she was okay. Because she wasn't. I knew she wasn't, with the same certainty I knew my own name.

I tried calling her. Nothing. Texted again, knowing she wouldn't respond. Please just let me know you're okay. I'm worried about you.

The silence that followed was deafening.

I showered and dressed quickly, mind racing. Where would she go? Who would she talk to, if not me? The answers came immediately. Mia. Daniel at the bookstore.

Daniel first, since the bookstore was closest. The man's face fell the moment he saw me, which was answer enough before he even opened his mouth.

"She didn't come in today. Didn't call either."

My stomach dropped. "When's the last time you heard from her?"

He frowned, clearly worried now. "She asked for some time off. Said she needed to deal with some personal things. I gave her the rest of the week."

Today was Thursday. Two days since she'd walked away from me. Two days of silence not just for me, but for her boss too, apparently.

"Thanks," I said, already turning to leave.

"Let me know if you find her?" Daniel called after me. "She's important to me. To all of us here."

I nodded, throat tight. "I will."

Mia next. I called, not wanting to waste time going to her place if she wasn't there.

"Hello?" She sounded groggy, like I'd woken her.

"It's Callum. Have you heard from Isla?"

"Not since that text I told you about." A pause, then more alertly, "Why? What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Just a feeling."

"Let me try calling her." Mia's voice had lost all traces of sleep now, tension evident in every syllable.

"I've tried. She's not answering."

"Maybe she'll answer me."

I waited, heart pounding, as Mia presumably tried to call Isla. After a moment, she came back on the line.

"Nothing. Straight to voicemail."

"I'm going to check her apartment."

"I'm not in town right now," Mia said, frustration clear in her voice. "Family thing in Chicago. Won't be back until tomorrow."

"Do you have a key to her place?"

"No, but there's a spare. In the plant pot outside her door. If you're really worried, you could check on her."

I remembered the stairs leading up to Isla's apartment. The narrow stairwell with no elevator. My stomach twisted. "I can try."

"Call me if you find her. Or if you don't. Just call me back, okay?"

"I will."

I hung up, already heading for my car. The drive to Isla's apartment was a blur, the same dread pulsing through me with every heartbeat.

Something's wrong.

Something's wrong.

Something's wrong.

As I pulled up in front of her building, my phone buzzed. A text from Mia.

Mia: Just got this from Isla. Call me NOW.

Under it was a screenshot of a text that made my blood run cold.

Isla: I'm sorry for everything. For not being stronger. For not being able to stay. You've been a good friend. Better than I deserved. I hope you know none of this is your fault.

It read like a goodbye. Like a permanent one.

I called Mia, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone.

"Did you get my text?" she demanded without preamble.

"Yes. I'm at her building now."

"I'm calling the police. That message it's not good, Callum."

"I know." My voice sounded strange, distant, as if it belonged to someone else. "I'm going up there."

"The stairs—"

"I'll figure it out. Just call the police. Tell them to hurry."

I hung up and transferred to my chair, wheeling inside as fast as I could. The same steps that had always been there mocked me now, an insurmountable barrier between me and the woman I loved.

A door opened nearby, and an older woman emerged from the ground floor apartment. I recognized her vaguely, the neighbor who'd told Isla I was looking for her last time.

"Excuse me," I called, desperation making my voice sharper than intended. "Do you remember me? I'm Isla's... I'm a friend of Isla's."

She looked wary but nodded. "The young man in the wheelchair. Yes, I remember."

"I need your help. I think Isla's in trouble."

Something in my face or voice must have conveyed the urgency, because the woman's expression shifted from suspicious to concerned. "What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know exactly. But she sent a message to a friend that sounds bad. Like she might hurt herself. I need to check on her, but I can't..." I gestured helplessly at the stairs.

Understanding dawned in the woman's eyes. "I'll go up."

"There's a key in the plant pot by her door."

The woman nodded and hurried up the stairs. I waited at the bottom, each second feeling like an eternity. The sound of a door opening. Then silence. Then a scream that made my blood freeze in my veins.

"Oh my God! Oh my God!"

"What is it?" I shouted up the stairs. "What's happening?"

The woman appeared at the top of the stairwell, face ashen, phone already pressed to her ear. "There's so much blood," she said, her voice shaking. "I think she's tried to kill herself. I'm calling 911."

The world tilted, reality shifting beneath me as the words registered. Blood. Suicide. Isla.

No. No no no no no.

Without conscious thought, I flung myself from my chair onto the first step. Then the second. Using my arms to drag my body up the narrow stairwell. The physical strain was immediate and intense, muscles screaming in protest, palms scraping on the rough concrete.

"Isla!" I screamed, my voice raw with desperation. "Isla!"

Tears streamed down my face as I clawed my way up another step. And another. My legs dragging behind me, dead weight I couldn't control. I'd never felt more helpless, more fucking useless in my entire life. In this moment when every second mattered, when she needed me most, I couldn't even run to her. Couldn't take the stairs two at a time.

Couldn't do the most basic human thing.

"Fuck!" I roared, half sob, half scream, as I dragged myself higher. "Please, God, please."

I didn't even know what I was begging for. For Isla to be alive. For strength to reach her. For the ability to stand up, just this once, when it actually mattered. My arms trembled violently with the effort, sweat and tears mingling on my face as I pushed myself beyond what I thought possible.

"Why can't I just fucking walk?" I cried out, slamming my fist against a step in rage and frustration. "Why can't I just run to her?"

But there was no answer, no miracle. Just the brutal reality of my broken body and the woman I loved bleeding out at the top of these godforsaken stairs. So I kept going. Kept dragging. Kept fighting. One excruciating inch at a time.

"Send an ambulance to 1427 Pine Street, apartment 3B," I heard the woman saying into her phone. "Young woman, maybe mid-twenties. Cuts on both wrists. She's unconscious but breathing."

Breathing. She was breathing.

I clung to that as I hauled myself up another step. And another. Sweat poured down my face. My arms trembled with the effort, every movement agony, but I kept going. Had to keep going. Had to reach her.

"Sir, are you okay?" The woman was looking down at me, horror on her face at the sight of me dragging myself up the stairs.

"Help me," I gasped. "Please."

She hesitated, still on the phone with 911, then came down to assist. Together, with her pulling and me pushing, we managed to get me to the top of the stairs, to the landing outside Isla's open apartment door.

"She's in the bathroom," the woman said, still pale with shock. "I put pressure on the wounds like they told me, but there's so much blood. The ambulance is coming."

I dragged myself across the threshold, into Isla's apartment, leaving the neighbor to direct the paramedics when they arrived. The place was sparsely furnished, walls bare except for a single framed photo of what must have been Margaret, her foster mother. Books everywhere, stacked on every surface. And on the floor...

Blood. A trail of it leading to the bathroom. My heart stopped, then started again in a painful, erratic rhythm as I followed that crimson path, arms burning with the effort of pulling my body across the floor.

"Isla," I called, voice cracking. "Isla, can you hear me?"

No response. Just the sound of my own labored breathing and the distant wail of approaching sirens.

The bathroom door was partially open. I pushed it wider, and the sight that greeted me would be seared into my memory forever.

Isla lay on the white tile floor, her dark hair a stark contrast, spread out like a halo around her too-pale face. Blood pooled beneath her outstretched arms, bright red against the porcelain tiles. A razor blade, discarded, lay near her limp hand.

She looked small. Fragile. Nothing like the vibrant force of nature I knew her to be. And so, so still.

"No," I whispered, the word a prayer, a plea, a denial of the scene before me. "Isla, no."

I dragged myself to her side, pulled her limp body into my arms, not caring about the blood that immediately soaked into my clothes. Her skin was cool to the touch, her face waxy and pale.

"Isla," I choked out, pressing my fingers to her neck, searching desperately for a pulse. It was there, faint and thready, but there. "Baby girl, please. Stay with me. Please stay with me."

Her eyelids fluttered, the barest movement, but enough to send hope surging through me.

"That's it, Sunshine. Come back to me. Open your eyes."

Nothing. Just that faint pulse beneath my fingertips and the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

The neighbor appeared in the doorway, still on the phone. "The ambulance is almost here," she said, her voice seeming to come from very far away. "They want to know if she's breathing."

"Yes," I managed to say. "Barely. Tell them to hurry."

She relayed the information, then disappeared again, presumably to guide the paramedics when they arrived.

I cradled Isla against my chest, one hand pressed firmly to her wrist where the cut was deepest, trying to stem the flow of blood. My other arm held her close, as if I could somehow transfer my life force to her through sheer proximity.

"Don't you dare leave me," I whispered fiercely into her hair. "Don't you fucking dare, Isla. Not like this. Not when I haven't even told you I love you yet."

The words tumbled out, a confession I'd been holding back for fear of scaring her away. Now I was terrified I'd never get the chance to say them when she could hear them.

"I love you. I've loved you since that first day in the bookstore when you looked at me like I was a person, not a chair. I've loved you through every fight, every step forward, every retreat. I love your sunshine and your storms, your strength and your scars. All of you, Isla. I love all of you."

My voice broke on the last words, sobs catching in my throat. I pressed my forehead to hers, tears falling onto her unresponsive face.

"Please stay with me," I begged. "Please. I can't lose you."

The sirens were louder now, almost here. But were they in time? Her pulse seemed weaker, her breathing more labored.

"The ambulance is here," the neighbor called from somewhere in the apartment. "I'll show them in."

The next few minutes were a blur of activity. Paramedics rushing in, gently but firmly moving me aside to work on Isla. Questions I could barely process, let alone answer. How long had she been like this? Did she take any medications? Had this happened before?

I answered as best I could, watching in muted horror as they started IVs, applied pressure bandages to her wrists, lifted her onto a stretcher. One of them noticed me on the floor, registered the wheelchair abandoned at the bottom of the stairs.

"Sir, do you need assistance as well?"

I shook my head. "Just get her to the hospital. Save her. Please."

Another paramedic, a woman with kind eyes, knelt beside me. "We'll take good care of her," she promised. "But we need to get you down those stairs too. You're covered in blood, and I need to make sure none of it is yours."

I hadn't even considered the possibility that I might be injured. Couldn't feel anything beyond the crushing weight of fear for Isla. But as the adrenaline began to fade, I became aware of the burning in my palms.

"I'm fine," I insisted. "Just need to get to the hospital with her."

"And you will. But first, let us help you."

It took three of them to carry me down the stairs to my wheelchair, a humiliating experience I barely registered through my panic for Isla. They wanted to check me over, treat the abrasions on my hands, but I refused, insisting I would go to the ER with Isla or follow in my car.

In the end, they relented, allowing me to ride in the ambulance with her. I held her hand, the one without the IV, as they worked around me, administering fluids, checking vitals, doing whatever it is paramedics do to keep someone alive who has decided they don't want to be.

She never regained consciousness during the journey. I kept talking to her anyway, a steady stream of reassurances and pleas and declarations of love, as if the words alone could tether her to this world. To me.

At the hospital, they whisked her away, beyond doors I wasn't allowed to follow through. A nurse led me to a waiting area, promised updates as soon as they had them, and gently suggested I let someone look at my hands, which were raw and bleeding from dragging myself up those stairs.

I barely heard her. Could barely think beyond the image of Isla on that bathroom floor, surrounded by her own blood. The memory of her walking away from me, saying she was sorry. The text she'd sent Mia, a goodbye she'd never intended to take back.

I pulled out my phone with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Called Theo, who answered on the second ring.

"Hey, man. What's up?"

"Isla tried to kill herself." The words came out flat, emotionless, a statement of fact my brain still couldn't fully process. "We're at Memorial Hospital. I don't... I can't..."

"I'm on my way," Theo said immediately. "Don't move. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

I hung up, staring at the phone screen without really seeing it. Then, remembering my promise, I called Mia.

"Did you find her?" she demanded without preamble.

"Yes." My voice cracked. "She... she hurt herself, Mia. Bad. We're at Memorial Hospital now."

A sharp intake of breath. "Oh God. Is she..."

"Alive. For now. They took her back. Haven't told me anything yet."

"I'm getting on the next flight home." I heard rustling, like she was already packing. "Tell her just tell her I'm coming, okay? As soon as I can."

"I will."

After we hung up, I sat there, numb, watching the second hand tick on the wall clock. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. No news. No updates. Just the sterile smell of the hospital and the echo of my own thoughts.

This was my fault. I should have known. Should have seen the signs. Should have done more to help her, to make her believe she was worthy of love. That she deserved to stay. To live.

Isla, who thought no one had ever chosen her. Who didn't know how to be loved. Who had decided, in her brokenness, that the world would be better off without her.

Who had almost left for good.

A doctor appeared finally, approaching with the careful expression of someone about to deliver news that could go either way.

"Mr. Rhodes? You came in with Isla Monroe?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

"She's stable," the doctor said, and I felt my lungs work again for the first time in what felt like hours. "She lost a lot of blood, but we've given her a transfusion and stitched the wounds. Physically, she'll recover."

"Physically?"

The doctor's expression softened slightly. "She's going to need help, Mr. Rhodes. Psychiatric help. This wasn't a cry for attention. She meant to die today."

The blunt assessment hit me like a physical blow. "Can I see her?"

"Not yet. We've sedated her for now, and when she wakes up, she'll need to be evaluated by the psychiatric team. Are you family?"

"No. I'm her..." What was I? Boyfriend seemed too casual, too trivial for what we were to each other. "I'm her boyfriend," I said finally.

The doctor nodded. "I see. Well, as you aren't legally family, I can't share more details without her consent. But you're welcome to wait, and once she's awake, if she agrees, you can see her."

"Thank you."

She hesitated, then added more gently, "She's lucky you found her when you did. Another hour, maybe less, and we wouldn't be having this conversation."

The words sent ice through my veins. Another hour. Sixty minutes. The difference between life and death, between a future with Isla and a world without her.

I thanked the doctor again and watched her walk away, leaving me alone with that terrible knowledge. That I had almost lost her. That I still might, not to death, but to her own conviction that she wasn't worthy of being loved. Of being saved. Of staying.

Theo arrived minutes later, took one look at me, and wrapped me in a hug I didn't know I needed until I was sobbing into his shoulder, weeks of fear and worry breaking free all at once.

"She's alive," he murmured, understanding without being told that this was the only fact that mattered right now. "She's alive, Cal. Hold onto that."

I nodded against his shoulder, unable to speak, to think, to feel anything beyond the raw gratitude that Isla was still in this world. Still breathing. Still here.

Still with me, for now at least.

The rest—the psychiatric evaluation, the hard conversations ahead, the long road to healing—all of that could wait. For now, I just had to hold onto the one truth that mattered.

She was alive. I had found her in time.

And I wasn't going to let her go again without a fight.