A Month Without You.

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☆ ゚・。。・ ゚ ゚・。。・ ゚★

Many had long accepted a simple truth: if Lynch showed up with his camera, trouble wasn’t far behind. Each outing promised fresh material for the blog, but too often ended in life-threatening danger. And yet, despite the constant risk, you and your team always made it out — usually with nothing more than a few scrapes, as if luck itself walked beside you.

But this time, luck turned its back — on you, specifically. The latest incident left more than just scars. The wound you received was deep and unforgiving; blood poured endlessly until the medics intervened. Panic gripped John — how had he and Lynch failed to see it coming? Why hadn’t they prevented this?

Luckily, Lynch stayed level-headed, pulling his friend back to the present and taking control of the situation. You were rushed to the hospital, where you spent a month in a coma — hovering somewhere between life and whatever lies beyond.

They visited your room constantly — sometimes together, sometimes on their own. They’d sit for hours at your bedside, talking as if their voices could reach you through the thick haze of unconsciousness. At times, emotions would overtake them; their voices trembled with pleading, gestures full of desperation. They begged you to wake up — because without you, their adventures had no flavor, and the world lost its color.

And eventually, on one of those quiet days, you opened your eyes — gasping for breath, disoriented and slow to comprehend where you were. Your gaze wandered across the ceiling, the unfamiliar walls... until it landed on two very familiar faces.

Faces lit up with pure relief — joy, even. It was as if the world had snapped back into place. When you tried to rise, your body nearly gave out. The two of them immediately pressed you back down with firm but gentle hands, and John bolted from the room in search of a doctor.

Later, when you were more lucid, they told you everything that had happened. And when — true to your nature — you demanded to be discharged immediately, they answered in unison with a hard, unwavering "no."

Still, after a few days of rehabilitation, you managed to wear them down. They brought you back to Lynch’s home — warm, quiet, and safe — where they took turns watching over you, making sure your recovery came first.

Even though you were starting to feel better, the doctors remained firm: full recovery would take time. Your stats weren’t good enough yet, and pushing your limits could be dangerous.

But more than that — it was your friends. The fear they had endured when you were clinging to life left its mark. No matter how many times you insisted you were ready to hit the road again, they refused to budge.

No more close calls. No more narrow escapes.

Their care was stubborn — sometimes even exasperating — but deep down, you understood. It wasn’t just caution. It was something far more personal.

You tossed off the blanket and shifted to the edge of the couch, clearly preparing to stand. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried — and, just like before, it triggered an immediate response.

Lynch, standing by the window with a cooling cup of tea, turned even before you moved fully. He had already sensed it.

He looked at you with that same calm expression — the one that always unsettled more than yelling ever could. Slowly, he approached, voice even and quiet:

— “You want to go back. Back to where you nearly died last time. We were there — we saw it. We dragged you through the rain, through panic and blood. While you slept, we stopped breathing. While you were in that coma, we counted every second. Not again. Not now.”

He sat beside you, returning the blanket with a single decisive motion. His hand lingered briefly on your shoulder — solid, final.

— “I know you're not weak. But even strong people need time to heal.”

John, who had been scrolling through his phone like he wanted to disappear into it, suddenly slapped the armrest and shot to his feet.

— “Oh for ’s sake, again with this? Do you even know what you looked like? I thought you were done for. So did Lynch. We were losing our minds waiting for you to blink.”

He started pacing the room, hands clenched and gestures sharp.

— “You think it’s over. That we can just go back to normal. But we’re still stuck in that nightmare. I can’t even look at your damn pillow without feeling like you might not wake up again.”

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling hard, voice growing quieter — but no less frustrated:

— “So sit down. Eat your mush. Let your organs have, I don’t know, a couple of days without getting torn apart, alright?”

Lynch allowed himself a small smile, not turning to face him:

— “He says ‘a couple of days,’ but we both know... you’re not going anywhere without round-the-clock supervision.”

John scoffed, dropping back onto the chair, muttering under his breath:

— “Next time, I’m tying you to the radiator. Not even joking.”

The room fell quiet again. Only the steady ticking of the wall clock remained — quietly counting the time it took for them to learn how to stop being afraid.

And all they wanted now... was for you not to run from this peace too soon.