Unwritten Fate [BL]
Chapter 147: Until He Wakes

Chapter 147: Until He Wakes

The air was soft. Clean. Heavy with that distinct scent of antiseptic and faint lavender soap — maybe from the fresh gown or sheets.

Billy hadn’t stirred again. His chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm, lashes fluttering now and then, but no sign of waking yet.

Camila sat with her chin resting on her palm, watching him in that quiet, protectively annoyed way only siblings know how to.

"You always had to do things the dramatic way," she murmured, lips curling faintly. "Even a nap looks poetic on you."

She glanced over her shoulder. Their mother had stepped out for a moment — probably to take a call. Maybe to breathe. Camila didn’t ask.

Billy’s hand, the one resting on the blanket, looked smaller today. Softer.

She reached out, just barely brushing her fingers against his.

"I know you’re scared," she whispered. "I am too. But... you’re not alone, okay? Not anymore. You’ve got me, and Mom, and—"

She stopped herself.

Her gaze flicked to the faint ink line peeking out beneath his sleeve. The lake. The tree. The shape of a boy sitting beneath it.

Artur.

Camila swallowed hard.

"You’ve got him too... even if he’s far."

Outside, the afternoon light was shifting. A few shadows stretched across the floor. A soft breeze from the cracked window stirred the curtain, lifting it like a breath.

Billy twitched again — just a little — the smallest movement of his fingers curling as if toward something in a dream.

Camila didn’t speak again.

She just stayed.

Watching over him.

Holding the silence.

Letting him rest.

The soft hum of the machines continued.

The window curtain glowed orange, touched by the descending sun. Shadows stretched longer now, casting soft shapes across the walls like slow-moving waves.

Camila stirred.

Her head had slumped to the edge of the bed, one hand still resting near Billy’s. A small blanket had been draped over her shoulders — maybe by a nurse, or their mother.

She blinked, sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the fading light.

Billy was still there.

Still.

Unmoved.

She checked the monitors — steady. Calm. But unchanged.

A soft ache settled behind her eyes. She rubbed them, then reached for the glass of water beside her.

The door creaked quietly.

Mrs. Sandoval stepped in with a wrapped sandwich in hand. Her face was composed but tired — the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t cure.

"I told you to go home and rest," she said gently, setting the food on the nearby table.

Camila shook her head. "Didn’t want to leave him."

Mrs. Sandoval glanced at the bed, then at her daughter. She didn’t argue.

"Still no movement?"

"No. Nothing."

She walked over and brushed her fingers along Billy’s forehead, the way she used to when he was small. Her expression flickered — something between fierce love and fragile fear.

"The doctors said it’s normal. Everyone responds differently. His body just needs more time."

Camila looked up. "You believe that?"

Mrs. Sandoval didn’t answer right away. She just stood there, still and composed.

"I have to."

The silence returned — but this time, it carried weight.

Camila leaned back in the chair again, folding her arms. "It’s only the first day."

"Yes," her mother whispered. "Only the first."

But her eyes stayed on him longer than before.

The light dimmed.

The quiet deepened.

And Billy didn’t move.

The lights had been dimmed.

Outside the window, the world had gone still — no more footsteps in the halls, no more nurses chatting at the desk. Just the occasional distant sound of a cart wheeling by, or a muffled announcement over the intercom.

Camila sat up straighter in the chair as her mother quietly folded a scarf into her purse.

"I’ll stay tonight," Camila said softly, her voice warm but certain. "You’ve done enough already. You have meetings tomorrow morning. Go home. Rest."

Mrs. Sandoval hesitated near the door.

"Camila—"

"I’ll call you the second anything changes. I promise."

For a moment, her mother looked torn — eyes drifting between her sleeping son and the daughter who now sat beside him, protective, steady.

Finally, she stepped over and kissed Camila’s head.

"I’ll come early. Before work."

"Okay."

Another pause — then a quiet look toward Billy, the kind of gaze only a mother could give. Long. Loving. Unspoken.

Then she left.

The door whispered shut behind her.

Camila leaned forward and reached for the warm cloth the nurse had left earlier — hands steady, even as something inside her screamed for movement, for noise, for anything but this endless quiet.

"Looks like it’s just us again," she said quietly. "You’ve always been good at sleeping through things. Just not this long, idiot."

She gave a soft smile, her voice catching.

"I know you’re still in there, Leon. You’re fighting, I know. Take your time... I’m not going anywhere."

She placed the cloth aside and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, shifting back into the chair, her head close to his again.

"Remember when we used to build a blanket fort between our beds? And we’d pretend it was a spaceship? And you’d always make me be the one to talk to the aliens?"

She laughed softly to herself.

"Still bossy even when you’re unconscious."

Outside, the night deepened.

Inside, the room glowed faintly in blue — monitor lights blinking, the sound of Billy’s breathing steady.

Camila reached for his hand, laced her fingers through his gently.

"I’ll be right here," she whispered. "So take your time."

And she stayed.

Until sleep slowly pulled her eyes closed again — still holding on, still waiting.

Sunlight seeped in through the slatted blinds, casting faint gold across the tiled floor. The monitor still beeped — steady, unchanged.

Billy hadn’t moved.

Camila stirred awake in the chair, her neck stiff, one hand still holding his. Her fingers were slightly numb, but she didn’t let go.

She blinked against the light and sat up slowly. Checked his face. His chest. His hand.

Still sleeping.

Still here.

A soft knock at the door.

A nurse peeked in, smiling gently.

"Good morning. Any change?"

Camila shook her head, voice hoarse. "No. Still resting."

The nurse stepped in, checking the IV line and the monitors with quiet efficiency.

"His vitals are holding strong. This is normal — his body’s been through a lot. Deep rest is part of the healing."

Camila nodded, trying to believe it all over again.

The nurse replaced the water jug and gently fluffed the pillow beneath his head.

"We’ll be monitoring him closely. You’re doing the right thing — just being here."

She smiled and left.

Camila let out a slow breath and looked down at her brother again. His features looked softer in the morning light. Peaceful. Familiar.

She reached for her phone, tapped the screen... and saw the missed call.

Mom.

She’d called twice already.

Camila stood and stretched. Her shoulders ached, her stomach rumbled faintly.

She took a step toward the door... then turned back and kissed the top of Billy’s head.

"I’ll grab coffee. Be right back."

He didn’t move.

The curtain drifted slightly in the morning breeze.

And the room returned to stillness.

Camila stepped into the hallway, the door clicking softly shut behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the brighter lights, the gentle clatter of nurses and carts moving down the corridor.

She leaned against the wall, pulled her phone from her back pocket, and tapped the screen.

CALLING: Mom

The line rang once. Twice.

"Camila?"

Her mother’s voice was tight — alert, but tired.

"Hi, Mom. Sorry I missed your calls. I just stepped out."

"How is he?"

Camila’s throat tightened. She looked down at her sneakers.

"The same. Peaceful. Still hasn’t woken up."

A pause.

"The doctors said it’s not unusual. It could be days," she added quickly, not wanting to panic her. "But everything else is fine. His vitals are good. They check every hour."

"I see." Her mother’s voice grew quieter. "And... you’re alright?"

Camila gave a soft smile to no one.

"I’m hanging in. I’ve just been talking to him. Keeping the room from getting too quiet."

Her mother exhaled — not relief exactly, but something softer than fear.

"Do you want me to come by later?"

"Only if you want to. I’ve got it covered, I promise. I’m about to grab some coffee and go right back in."

"Okay. Just... let me know if anything changes. Anything at all."

"I will."

Camila hesitated, then added, her voice low:

"He looks peaceful, Mom. I think... I think he’s just taking his time."

There was no reply at first. Just breath on the other end.

"Good," her mother said finally. "Tell him... tell him I’m waiting."

"I will."

They ended the call.

Camila stared at her screen a moment longer before tucking it away. She rubbed her eyes, then headed toward the small café kiosk down the hall.

And the camera — the story — gently follows her steps... before slowly drifting back toward Room 208, where silence still holds, and Billy still dreams.

The air smelled faintly of toast, bitter coffee, and industrial soap. Chairs scraped quietly against the tiled floor as people came and went — nurses on break, a young father cradling a coffee, a woman rubbing her temples beside a soup bowl.

Camila stood in line, arms folded tightly around herself, eyes not really focused on the chalkboard menu.

She didn’t look like someone hungry.

Just someone who needed to do something.

"Next," the barista called gently.

Camila blinked back into focus. "Just... coffee. Cream, no sugar."

She paid, waited.

Her fingers tapped against the counter as her thoughts drifted. Billy. Still not moving. Still asleep. She could see his face clearly even now — the rise and fall of his chest, the quiet stillness of his hands.

The barista set the cup down.

"Here you go."

"Thanks." She wrapped both hands around the cup, as if trying to siphon some certainty from its heat.

She turned and walked toward the glass window at the far end of the cafeteria. It overlooked the hospital garden — small hedges, a trickling fountain, and one couple sitting silently on a bench.

Camila sat alone at a corner table. Took a sip. Winced slightly. Too hot.

She placed the cup down and pulled out her phone again, checking for updates. Nothing. A message from a friend blinked unread. She ignored it.

Her gaze drifted outside again, jaw tight.

"Don’t do this, Leon," she whispered to the glass. "You said you’d fight. So fight."

A nurse passed behind her, chatting quietly on the phone. Somewhere in the background, a child laughed — sharp and short before disappearing again.

Camila lowered her head onto her arms, closing her eyes for just a moment.

And for a second — just a breath of one — she imagined his voice beside her.

"You look tired, sis."

The voice wasn’t real — but it found her anyway.

She didn’t lift her head. Just whispered back,

"So do you, troublemaker."

And let the ache of memory settle around her like an old song.

And with that, she exhaled, pushed her shoulders back, and stood again. She wasn’t ready to sit still.

She had a room to return to. And a reason to keep waiting — even if the silence never spoke first.