The Last Song

BY SHAFI UL HAQ

The last song we listened to together was a Fleetwood Mac track. "Landslide." We sang along—off-key, loud, laughing. The road home was quiet and nearly empty, the kind of night where the world feels like it’s only yours.

We had just left Olivia’s birthday party. She turned thirty and cried about it while holding a martini in one hand and her ex-boyfriend’s hoodie in the other. Typical Liv.

James and I slipped away early. He hated parties, but he came for me. Always did.

“I’m starving,” he said, driving with one hand, the other resting on my thigh.

“There’s leftover pizza at home,” I offered, curling toward the heater vent. “And leftover cake. And leftover wine.”

He laughed. “Basically a whole buffet.”

We were three blocks from our apartment when the other car ran a red light.

I saw it first—just a blur of headlights and a scream stuck in my throat. It slammed into us from the driver’s side. The crunch of metal, glass, the sudden silence. My body hit the door, then snapped back like a ragdoll.

Everything went black.

The hospital lights were too bright. A clean, clinical brightness that didn’t match the weight in my chest.

I woke up alone. No James. Just a nurse checking my vitals. A woman with kind eyes who told me I had a mild concussion, bruised ribs, and needed rest. But all I could ask was, “Where is he?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just pursed her lips and told me the doctor would explain. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

Dr. Patel came in, all soft-spoken and measured. I hated him instantly.

“Miss Klein… James is in the ICU. He sustained severe internal injuries. We’re doing everything we can.”

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked, gripping the edge of the bed.

A pause. Just a second too long.

“We’ll know more in the next 24 hours. I’m very sorry.”

That phrase again—I’m very sorry. Like it fixed anything. Like it filled the space James left in the room.

I was wheeled into his room against their suggestion.

He was barely recognizable. Tubes. Machines. A bruise that bloomed across his chest like a shadow. His eyes were closed, lips pale.

I reached for his hand. It twitched once. Then nothing.

“You promised me a boring life,” I whispered, brushing my fingers across his knuckles. “You said you’d never leave me alone with Olivia at parties again.”

The nurse came and went. Hours passed. Night turned into morning, and still he didn’t wake.

The next day, Dr. Patel returned. There was more of the same—blunt truths disguised in soft voices. Brain swelling. Broken ribs. Internal bleeding. No timeline. No guarantees.

They let me stay. I didn’t leave his side. I couldn’t.

That evening, Olivia showed up. She hugged me tight, mascara smeared and eyes red. “I should’ve made you stay longer. Maybe if you had another drink—”

“Don’t,” I interrupted. “Don’t make it worse by thinking it was your fault.”

She nodded, then sat beside me in silence.

That night, I played Landslide from my phone and placed it near his ear.

“Do you remember?” I whispered. “You said it sounded like heartbreak wrapped in velvet. You were right.”

No response. Just the soft beep of machines.

“I don’t know what happens now,” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. “But I’m not leaving. Even if you don’t remember me. Even if you never open your eyes again.”

The room was cold. Sterile. But I didn’t care. I pulled my chair closer and laid my head beside his arm.

I stayed.

Through the night.

Through the silence.

Through the not knowing.

Because love doesn’t walk away—not when it matters.

Especially not in the middle of the last song.