This is what I know. I know that I am twenty. I know that I was shot in the leg by a man I once considered a friend. I know that I almost died today. I know that Joel Reed, the man I love, was shot in the chest and may never wake up. I know that Stan Walsh has been gifted with ungodly abilities. I know that he is now in jail and charged with two counts of attempted murder. I also know that there are others like me, others who can do terrible and strange things.

I know that everything in my life is changing and I don't know if it's for the better.

I also know that I'm in a hospital waking up after who knows how long. I shoot up in bed almost immediately, my heart rate spiking and the monitor going wild. The nurse beside me, an older woman with blue eyes and blonde curls, immediately sets my chart down and widens her eyes.

"Whoa, easy there, doll," my nurse says, placing her hand on my shoulder. "Calm down a bit."

"Joel!" I screech. "My boyfriend— he was shot. I need to know if he's okay! He has to be okay! Is he alive? Did he make it?"

She shushes me, smoothing my hair down. "Breathe, honey. You've been through a lot."

"I don't matter!" I cry out. "Please, just tell me if he's alive. I just want to know that much."

"Okay, okay," she says. "I'll go check the database for a Joel. Last name?"

"Reed," I tell her. "His name is Joel Reed."

She nods. "Alright. I need you to stay still. That leg of yours is in bad shape. I need you not to move or try to get up or you could cause more damage. Understood?"

"Yes."

I watch her walk away and look around at my surroundings. The room is pretty small, fairly standard. It's just another generic place, somewhere on the fourth floor according to the number by my door. I've been in the hospital far too much for my own good. Despite it all, I'm not focused on myself, I'm so preoccupied with worrying about Joel that I don't have the energy to think about how I'm doing.

When she returns, the anxiety has all but killed me.

"There's a Joel Reed checked into the ICU," she says. "Just got out of surgery. I can take you to see him later, but the police would like to ask you questions first if that's alright."

It kills me to say it, but I whisper, "I don't need to visit. He's better... he's better if I stay away."

I don't know when I decided it, but I'm firm on my choice. He's better if I don't try to put myself back in his story. He made it past the fate of my vision for reasons no one can be too sure of. I need to keep my distance. I need to leave.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

I think so. "Yeah, I am."

When the officer comes in, I'm much calmer, ready to tell him what happened. The story is painful, a bit hazy too, and I'm struggling to recall every intricate detail of the incident. Eventually, I decide it's probably best that I can't remember most of it. When he asks why Stan targeted me, I tell the officer that I'm not certain. I must be pretty convincing because he doesn't push me any further for answers.

Once he gets my full statement, his final question is whether or not Stan was working alone.

Out of loyalty to both Betsy and Joel, who did not know what they were doing at the time of their involvement, I lie and tell him yes.

That's all the officer needs to hear. With that, he leaves the room, and I'm finally alone again.

I settle back into the pillows, and even though rest is impossible, I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep. It's my way of protecting myself from the outside world.

I'm going to be here for a long time, according to the doctors. I'm lucky to have survived, and if there wasn't such a good selection of blood donations nearby, I would be dead. I'll need extensive therapy to walk again, and I won't be leaving for at least two days. Constantly being watched drives me crazy, but for the most part, I get to be alone.

I've told everyone who comes by that I don't want visitors. A few people come by, but I refuse to let them in. Chief and Besty give me cards and flowers. I smile, but don't get to thank them in person. I'm not ready to face anyone, not like this.

Days go by before I'm able to get up and pee on my own. It takes one hell of a fight to get my own set of crutches, but using the restroom without a bedpan is such a great feeling I nearly burst into tears.

Joel is alive. I check on him periodically by asking the nurses how he is. He's awake and talking. He's asked about me, which makes me feel guilty. Of course, he cares about me. Of course, he wouldn't be mad, even if the whole reason he's gotten hurt is because of me.

A week. I'm here for a week, racking up a hell of a hospital bill barely subsidized by my insurance. Mom helps and even comes into my room without my consent on one occasion. It isn't until a week goes by that I'm told I can go home.

I check out in the morning, desperate for a shower and the comfort of my bed. I'll be staying with my mother until I find a new place in the city. I don't know how I'll get back to life as I knew it, but I want to try.

She's going to pick me up soon. I've already confirmed it, but since she's stuck in traffic, I get a moment to myself. It takes a lot to find a place to be alone in a crowded building, but my success is a breath of fresh air.

Joel finds me on the roof of the hospital, staring out at Boston. I hear his footsteps: heavy and labored. He groans as he walks toward me, the pain already slowing him down. He takes his time because he has to. The bullet has crippled him, and he stubbornly forced himself out of bed to get to me here. I don't have to look to know it's him. Everything in me is wired to recognize him.

"The nurse said you checked out a bit ago," he calls from behind me.

I turn a little, but I avoid eye contact. "Well, I did."

"She also said you headed for the top floor instead of going down," he points out. "You took the stairs on crutches? That's impressive."

I'm keeping most of the weight off my bad leg, even though the painkillers have dulled everything so much I barely notice the fact a bullet ruined my ability to walk. The sun is high, and all I can do is watch as another day goes by.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"Because you are," he replies.

I swallow hard, trying not to cry at the tenderness in his voice. He staggers to me and pushes a hand through my hair, his palm against my cheek, his fingers in the strands. A single tear slips down my face. I can't help it.

"They told me the first thing you did was ask about me," he tells me. "I was so grateful to know you were fine. I thought maybe you'd be there as soon as you could. All I wanted was to touch you again."

Shame hits me.

"Then you never showed. A day passed. Two. I talked to everyone I could and got nothing. It didn't seem like you at first. You wouldn't abandon me, or us. Or maybe you would if you really got a bad idea in that head of yours."

The lump in my throat grows and becomes hard to swallow. I'm choking on every emotion I've kept buried.

"You never came to visit me," he says, hurt. "I waited for you every single day. The doctor said you were up and walking and that you refused to come by my room. I would've come to you, but they wouldn't let me move more than a few feet. I tried to contact you. I tried everything."

"I'm sorry," I whimper.

"Don't be sorry," he replies sharply. "Don't be sorry, dammit. Just tell me why you did it."

I chew my lip, trying to pull away. He doesn't let me. He keeps me there, forcing me to look into those green eyes that make me feel at home. I can't leave him when his gaze is like that.

"If you're gonna break my heart," he starts, his voice cracking. "If you're gonna break my heart, you better see me while you do it."

I see you. You're all I see.

"Stan killed you because of me," I tell him.

"Stan tried to kill me because he's a fucking psycho," Joel shoots back. "You had nothing to do with that."

"You died," I say. "You died right in front of me."

"But I'm here," he counters. "I flatlined and I stopped breathing, but they brought me back. I'm alive, and he didn't murder me like he thought he would."

"He went after you because I didn't give him what he wanted."

"For the last time, this is not about you!" Joel raises his voice.

"You just don't want to admit it," I huff. "You wouldn't have been involved if it wasn't for me—"

"Stop, Vi."

"I can't keep you close to me if it means you could get hurt. I didn't ask for these powers and I didn't ask for this life. The only thing I can control is who I let close to me. You don't get to be close to me, not if it means losing everything."

"That's not your decision," he says, his face stony.

"It is!" I insist. "It's my choice and I'm making it."

"Just tell me one thing, Violet," he pleads. "Do you love me?"

I stare at him, bewildered.

"Do you love me?" he repeats.

I don't know how he could ask. It's clear.

I think about laying in his bed, his hands on my skin, his lips on my neck, his hips rolling into mine over and over. I think about him saving my life. I think about all the ways we've shown each other the truth. It isn't even a question. Of course, I love him. I love him so much it hurts.

"You do," he whispers. "That's enough. I love you, Violet, and I'm not going anywhere. So, please, please don't go. Don't ask me to live a life without you. I'd rather die for you than live without you. That's never going to change."

I bury my face in his neck, hesitant to hold on because I know his wound is still fresh. A sob escapes and a shudder rolls down my back.

"Sweetheart," he says. "I didn't die. Not really. I'm still here and I'm yours. I'm yours, and I'm begging you not to let me go."

"I'm sorry," I tell him.

"So make it better," he replies. "Be with me. Stay with me. Please, stay with me, sweetheart."

"Okay. I'll stay," I whisper. "I'll stay."