Morning arrived with a shift change, new nurses in fresh scrubs, trays of hospital breakfast that smelled nothing like food should. Through it all, I stayed in my chair beside Isla's bed, watching her sleep, the exhaustion of my own sleepless night forgotten in the face of my worry for her.

After she'd woken last night, after our conversation and her tears, the doctor had come in to evaluate her. They'd adjusted her medication, asked her questions about her state of mind, her intent, her current thoughts of self-harm. She'd answered truthfully, as far as I could tell. Yes, she had meant to die. No, she wasn't actively suicidal now. Yes, she understood she needed help.

They'd given her something to help her sleep after that, and she'd drifted off still holding my hand, the ghost of a smile on her lips when I'd promised to be there when she woke.

That had been hours ago. The night stretching into morning, her sleep deep and untroubled while my mind raced with everything that had happened. Everything that might still happen.

Mia had arrived shortly after midnight, taking one look at Isla's sleeping form and bursting into tears.

"I should have known," she'd said, over and over. "I should have seen the signs."

I couldn't offer her any comfort on that front, not when I was thinking the same thing about myself. We should have known. Should have seen. Should have done something before it got this far.

But recriminations wouldn't help Isla now. Only action would. So Mia had gone to Isla's apartment to clean up the bathroom, to gather some clothes and toiletries, to make sure the place was ready for when Isla eventually went home.

And I had stayed, keeping my vigil at her bedside, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest like it was the only thing anchoring me to this world.

Around nine, Isla began to stir. Not the sudden awakening of the night before, but a gradual return to consciousness. Her eyelids fluttering. A small frown forming between her brows. A soft sigh that might have been my name.

"I'm here," I said, squeezing her hand gently. "Right here, Sunshine."

Her eyes opened slowly, focusing on me with an effort. For a moment, she just looked confused, as if she couldn't quite remember where she was or how she'd gotten there. Then her memory slowly returned, and with it, something else. Something that made my heart sink.

Shame.

Deep, burning shame that transformed her face, making her look away, unable to meet my eyes.

"Hey," I said softly. "Good morning."

She nodded slightly but didn't speak, didn't look at me. Just stared at the ceiling, her body tense beneath the thin hospital blanket.

"How are you feeling?" I asked, even though it was a stupid question. How could she be feeling anything but terrible?

She shrugged, a barely perceptible movement. Her hand slipped from mine, retreating to her side.

"The nurse said you might be able to have some real food this morning. I could ask them to bring you something better than whatever that is." I nodded toward the tray they'd left, the unidentifiable contents congealing under a plastic cover.

No response. Not even a glance in my direction.

"Isla," I said, trying to keep the worry from my voice. "Talk to me. Please."

"I shouldn't be here," she whispered finally, still not looking at me.

The words were a knife to my chest, sharp and unexpected. "What do you mean?"

"Just that. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have survived."

It shattered me, hearing her say that. After last night, after the tears and the connection and the fragile hope, to hear her say she wished she'd succeeded. That she regretted surviving.

"Don't say that," I said. "Please don't ever say that."

She turned to look at me then, and the emptiness in her eyes was worse than the words had been. "Why not? It's the truth. This was a mistake."

"What was? Surviving?"

"All of it. Coming to you that night in the rain. Letting you in. Making you think this could work." She looked away again. "I can't do this to you, Callum."

"Do what? Love me? Let me love you?"

"Drag you into my mess. Make you responsible for my fucked-up brain. Force you to be my caretaker instead of my partner."

"That's not what this is."

"Isn't it?" She gestured weakly at the hospital room, the machines, her bandaged wrists. "Look at where we are. Look at what I did. And look at you, sitting there like a fucking saint, sleep-deprived and worried sick because I couldn't handle my own shit."

"This isn't your fault, Isla."

"Then whose fault is it? Who sliced open their own wrists? Who left that note for Mia? Who has been running from their problems for so long they don't know how to do anything else?"

I had no answer for that. No way to argue with her self-condemnation because the facts, at least, were accurate. She had done those things. Had hurt herself, had planned to die, had left Mia that goodbye message.

But the conclusion she was drawing, that she shouldn't be with me, that she was somehow toxic or harmful to me?

That was bullshit.

"I'm not leaving," I said firmly.

"Then don't," she replied, her voice flat. "But I am."

"What are you talking about? You're in a hospital bed."

"For now. But when they discharge me, I'm not doing this. I can't." She closed her eyes, as if looking at me was too painful. "It's better this way. Cleaner."

"Cleaner? What the fuck does that mean?"

"It means I'm ending things now, before I hurt you more. Before you get even more invested in someone who's clearly too broken to be in a relationship."

I stared at her, trying to make sense of the complete one-eighty from last night. From the woman who'd cried in my arms, who'd admitted she might love me, who'd seemed willing to fight. To stay.

"What changed?" I asked. "Last night, you said—"

"I know what I said. I was emotional, vulnerable. I wasn't thinking clearly."

"So you didn't mean it? Any of it?"

She was quiet for a long moment. "I meant it," she said finally. "That's the problem. I meant every word, and it terrifies me. Because I don't trust myself not to hurt you again. Not to run when things get hard. Not to end up right back in this hospital bed or worse."

"That's what treatment is for. Therapy. Medication, if you need it. Support systems."

"And what if it doesn't work? What if I'm just fundamentally broken, Callum? What if this is as good as it gets?"

The despair in her voice was like a physical weight on my chest. "Then we deal with it. Together."

"I won't put that on you."

"It's not your choice to make."

She laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "Funny, you said the same thing the other day. But it is my choice. My life. My decision who I let in and who I push away."

"And you're choosing to push me away. Again."

"Yes."

The simple acknowledgment hurt more than I expected. I'd known where this conversation was heading from the moment she refused to look at me. Had felt it in the way she'd withdrawn her hand from mine. But hearing her say it so plainly still felt like a punch to the gut.

"Why now?" I asked. "Why not wait until you're out of here? Until you've had some treatment, some time to think?"

"Because if I wait, I might not be strong enough to do it." Her voice wavered slightly. "And because you deserve to know now, not later. To make your own choices about how involved you want to be in my recovery."

"I want to be involved. I want to be there for all of it."

"You say that now. But you don't know what you're signing up for."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't. Because I don't even know what I'm dealing with yet. The doctors have been throwing around terms like major depressive disorder, PTSD, borderline personality traits. This isn't a one-and-done thing, Callum. This is years of therapy, of medication trials, of figuring out how to function without self-destructing every time things get hard."

"I know that."

"Do you? Really? Because I've been living with this my whole life, and even I didn't fully understand how bad it was until I woke up in this hospital bed with sliced wrists and a psych hold."

I leaned forward, willing her to look at me, to see the sincerity in my eyes. "I'm not naive, Isla. I know recovery is long and hard and ugly sometimes. I know there will be setbacks and bad days and moments when it feels impossible. I've been there, remember? Not with the same issues, but I know what it's like to have to rebuild yourself from the ground up."

She finally met my gaze, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "That's different."

"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, we're both dealing with trauma. We're both trying to figure out who we are now versus who we were before. We're both scared of letting people in because we're afraid of being left when things get hard."

"And look how well that's working out for us," she said, gesturing again to the hospital room.

"We're still here. Both of us. Still trying. That counts for something."

She looked away, but not before I saw the doubt in her eyes. Not doubt in me, but in herself. In her own worth, her own capacity for change.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said again, softer now. "I couldn't bear it if I dragged you through all this only to fail. To end up right back here, or worse."

"Then don't. Don't push me away. Don't run. Don't give up before we've even had a chance to try."

"It's not that simple."

"It could be."

She shook her head, frustration evident in the tightness of her jaw. "You're not listening to me."

"I am. I hear you saying you're scared. That you don't trust yourself. That you think you're protecting me by pushing me away."

"And?"

"And I think you're wrong. I think you're making a decision based on fear, not fact. I think you're so convinced you're going to fail that you're not even willing to try."

Her gaze snapped back to mine, anger flashing in her eyes. Good. Anger was better than emptiness.

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? You're lying in a hospital bed after trying to kill yourself, and you're more worried about hypothetically hurting me in the future than actually taking care of yourself right now."

"I am taking care of myself. By making the responsible choice. By recognizing that I'm in no position to be in a relationship right now."

"Bullshit. You're running. Just like you always do when things get too real."

The words came out harsher than I'd intended, but I couldn't take them back. And I wasn't sure I wanted to. Sometimes the truth was harsh. Sometimes it needed to be.

She flinched as if I'd slapped her. "Get out."

"No."

"I said get out. I don't want you here."

"Tough. I'm not leaving."

"Why the fuck not?" Her voice rose, color flooding her pale cheeks. "Why can't you just let me go?"

"Because I love you, you stubborn, infuriating woman. Because I'm not giving up on us just because you're scared."

"It's not about being scared!"

"Yes, it is. You're terrified of letting me in, of being vulnerable, of needing someone. Because everyone who was supposed to stay left, and you're convinced I'll do the same once things get hard."

"Won't you?"

The question hung between us, raw and painful. The real heart of her fear, laid bare.

"No," I said firmly. "I won't. Not now, not ever. Not by choice."

She looked away, tears spilling over at last. "You can't promise that."

"I can. I am."

She shook her head, wiping at her tears with her unbandaged hand. "Please, Callum. Just go. Let me do this my way."

"Your way meaning alone? Isolated? Convinced you don't deserve help or love or support?"

"If that's what it takes."

"It's not. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You don't have to do this alone."

She was quiet for a long moment, her breathing uneven as she fought for control. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier, though still thick with tears.

"I need time. Space. To figure out who I am and what I need without worrying about how it affects you. Can you understand that?"

I did understand. More than she knew. After my accident, I'd needed the same thing. Time to grieve, to rage, to come to terms with my new reality without having to manage anyone else's feelings about it.

"Yes," I said finally. "I understand."

"Then please, give me that. I'm not saying never. I'm saying not now. Not like this."

It wasn't what I wanted. Wasn't what I thought she needed, either. But I couldn't force my way in if she was determined to keep me out. Couldn't make her accept my support if she truly believed she was better off without it.

"Okay," I said, the word feeling like gravel in my throat. "I'll give you space. But I'm not giving up on us, Isla. I want that to be very clear. This isn't me walking away."

"I know."

"Do you? Because it seems like you're expecting me to disappear like everyone else in your life."

She looked at me then, really looked at me, her gaze steady despite the tears still trailing down her cheeks. "I don't expect anything. Not anymore. I just need to do this part on my own."

"The hospital stay? The psych evaluation?"

"All of it. Getting my head straight. Learning how to live with myself without constantly wanting to escape. I can't be dependent on you for that. Can't put that responsibility on your shoulders."

"It's not a burden if it's freely offered."

"It would become one. Trust me."

I recognized the futility of continuing to argue. She had made up her mind, put up her walls, decided on her path forward. And it was a path that didn't include me, at least not in the way I wanted to be included.

"Fine," I said, the word clipped. "I'll back off. Give you the space you're asking for. But I'm still going to check on you. Still going to make sure you're okay. That's non-negotiable."

She nodded, a small concession. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me for doing the bare minimum of human decency."

"It's more than most people would do."

"I'm not most people." I shifted, my back aching from hours hunched forward in the hospital chair beside her bed. With effort, I transferred back into my wheelchair. "I should let the doctor know you're awake."

"Callum..."

My hand froze on the wheel. "Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. For all of it. For not being stronger. For not being who you deserve."

I turned toward her, this woman who had somehow become the center of my world in such a short time. Who was now pushing me away because she thought it was the right thing to do.

"You're exactly who I want, Isla. Broken parts and all. I just wish you could see that."

She didn't answer. Just turned her face toward the window, away from me. A clear dismissal. I left the room, the heavy hospital door closing behind me with a finality that felt like an ending.

The hallway was busy with morning activity, nurses and doctors and visitors navigating the narrow space. I wheeled through them, unseeing, my mind still in that room with Isla. With her tears and her fear and her absolute conviction that she was doing the right thing by pushing me away.

I found her doctor at the nurses' station, informed her that Isla was awake. Asked about the psych transfer, about visiting hours, about what would happen next. Practical questions that allowed me to focus on something other than the ache in my chest.

"We'll be moving her this afternoon," the doctor said. "Visitors are restricted for the first 24 hours while we do the initial assessment. After that, it's up to her who she wants to see."

"And if she doesn't want to see anyone?"

The doctor gave me a sympathetic look. "That's her choice, unfortunately. We can't force her to accept visitors, even ones as dedicated as you've been."

I nodded, understanding but not liking it. "Can you at least tell me how she's doing? If she's okay?"

"I can give general updates on her condition, yes. But specifics of her treatment will be private unless she authorizes us to share them with you."

"I understand. Thank you."

I wheeled away, unsure of where to go or what to do now. My body craved sleep, food, a shower. But leaving felt wrong somehow, like I was abandoning her, even though she had made it clear she didn't want me there.

In the end, I compromised. Found the hospital cafeteria, forced down a tasteless sandwich and a cup of coffee that was somehow both burnt and watery. Called Theo to update him, arranged for him to pick me up later. Then returned to the hallway outside Isla's room, not going in but not fully leaving either.

A nurse emerged, gave me a quizzical look. "She's asking for you."

Hope flared, bright and dangerous. Had she changed her mind? Realized she didn't want me to go after all?

I followed the nurse back into the room, finding Isla sitting up in bed, her face composed now, no trace of the tears from earlier.

"Did you forget something?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"No. The nurse said you wanted to see me."

She frowned slightly. "I didn't."

The nurse, already on her way out, paused. "Sorry, my mistake."

An honest error, but one that felt like salt in an open wound. I backed up, preparing to leave again. "Sorry to bother you."

"Callum, wait." Isla's voice stopped me. "Since you're here can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Are you going to be okay? If I do this. If I take the space I need."

The question surprised me. "Why are you worried about me right now?"

"Because I care about you. Because I don't want to hurt you any more than I already have."

"I'll be fine," I said, even though it wasn't entirely true. "I've survived worse."

She nodded, seeming to accept this. "If you need anything, Mia has my spare key. My lease is paid through the end of the month."

"I don't need anything from your apartment, Isla."

"I know. I just wanted you to know."

"Okay."

An awkward silence fell, neither of us knowing quite what to say. The easy connection of the night before seemed a million miles away, replaced by this careful distance, this deliberate separation.

"I should go," I said finally. "Let you rest."

"Okay."

I hesitated, one more question burning in my mind. "Can I ask you something now?"

"Sure."

"Do you regret telling me you might love me? Last night, was that true, or just the medication talking?"

She looked away, but not before I saw the flash of pain in her eyes. "It was true. That's why this is so hard."

"It doesn't have to be. We could face this together."

"No, we can't." She turned back to me, her expression resolute. "Not now. Maybe not ever. I need to learn how to stand on my own before I can be with anyone else. Especially you."

"Why especially me?"

"Because you matter too much. Because if I fail, if I hurt you, if I end up back here again I couldn't live with myself."

"So you're pushing me away to protect me?"

"To protect both of us."

I nodded, accepting her answer even if I didn't agree with it. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Not okay that I agree, or that I like it. But okay that I understand. That I'll respect your decision, even if I think it's the wrong one."

She smiled slightly, the first hint of warmth since I'd entered the room. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm still going to check on you. Still going to be here if you need me. Still going to hope you change your mind."

"I wouldn't expect anything less, Hot Wheels."

The nickname, so familiar and unexpected in this context, caught me off guard. A reminder of the woman she was, beneath the trauma and the fear and the self-loathing. My Sunshine girl, hidden behind storm clouds of her own making.

"Get some rest," I said, my voice gentler now. "And Isla? I meant what I said last night. All of it."

Her eyes filled with tears again, but she nodded. "I know."

I left then, before I could say more, before I could beg her to reconsider, to let me in, to stop pushing me away when all I wanted was to help her heal.

In the hallway, I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. She was alive. That was what mattered most. Everything else, her recovery, our relationship, the future we might or might not have together, all of that was secondary to the simple fact of her survival.

She needed time. Space. The chance to heal on her own terms, in her own way. And as much as it hurt, as much as I wanted to be by her side through all of it, I had to respect that.

For now, I would wait. Would hope. Would trust that the connection between us was strong enough to weather this separation.

And maybe, just maybe, she would find her way back to me when she was ready. When she had learned to stand on her own and realized that she didn't have to.

Until then, all I could do was love her from a distance. And pray that would be enough.