My fingers hovered over the article as nausea threatened to take over, my vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall. The words on the screen couldn't be real. This had to be some kind of mistake, some other Patrick Henson, some cosmic joke that the universe was playing on me.

This can't be happening. This can't be real.

On my exhale, I clicked the article with trembling fingers.

——————————————————————

THE DAILY CHRONICLE Breaking News

Tech CEO Patrick Henson Critical After Hit-and-Run Motorcycle Crash

Cypher Tech founder hospitalized following Highway 101 accident; authorities seeking second driver

DOWNTOWN - Patrick Henson, 25, CEO and co-founder of tech startup Cypher Tech, was critically injured late Thursday night in a hit-and-run motorcycle accident on Highway 101, according to police reports.

The accident occurred around 11:47 PM as Henson was traveling northbound on his 2026 Ducati motorcycle. Police say a vehicle struck Henson's motorcycle during heavy rainfall, causing him to lose control and collide with a concrete barrier. The driver of the other vehicle fled the scene immediately following the crash.

Emergency responders arrived at the scene within minutes and transported Henson to Madison Hope Trauma Center. His current condition has not been released, though sources close to the situation describe his injuries as life-threatening.

Authorities are actively searching for the driver and vehicle involved in the hit-and-run. Anyone with information about the incident is urged to contact the police immediately.

"We are monitoring this situation closely and our thoughts are with Patrick and his family during this difficult time," said Mayor Rebecca Thompson in a statement.

Henson co-founded Cypher Tech three years ago with business partner Danny Anderson, focusing on privacy-focused digital solutions. The company had recently announced a major expansion deal worth an estimated $50 million.

The investigation is ongoing.

——————————————————————

Guilt punched me in the gut like a professional fighter with a personal vendetta. 11:47 PM. Less than an hour after he'd left me in that parking garage, promising to call the next day, smiling at me like we had all the time in the world. He’d been driving home from our dinner—from the night that was supposed to mark the beginning of our new life together—when some coward struck him and left him to die on the side of the road

My hands were shaking so violently I could barely hold my phone as I navigated to my last unread message to Patrick and hit the call button. Something I should have done hours ago instead of getting stupidly caught up in modern texting culture and assuming he was ghosting me. Like a fucking idiot.

The line didn't ring. Instead, Patrick's voice came through his voicemail greeting: "Patrick Henson, you know what to do." Short and to the point, just like he'd always been. Hearing his voice—knowing I might never hear it again—made my chest tighten so much I could barely breathe.

I hung up and immediately opened Facebook, desperate for any information, any update that might tell me this wasn't as bad as it seemed. But I was instantly assaulted by pictures of Patrick, the same devastating headline flashing by as I scrolled through post after post. The tech community was already in mourning, sharing memories and well wishes. My heart sank with each post. Around me, the office buzzed with normal Friday afternoon activity—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, people discussing weekend plans and what they were going to watch on Netflix. How could the world continue spinning when Patrick was fighting for his life in some hospital room?

With trembling fingers, I opened Patrick's profile, scrolling through recent posts that now felt like artifacts from another lifetime. One of his last posts was a picture of him with his brother Kenny at what looked like a family barbecue, both of them grinning at the camera with the same mischievous green eyes. Patrick had his arm slung around his older brother's shoulders, looking relaxed and happy in a way I hadn't seen since we were kids.

I clicked on Kenny's profile and sent a message, my vision blurring as I typed:

Ashleigh Mayar: Hey Kenny. I’m not sure if you remember me from when Patrick and I were kids… I just saw the news. I have to know. Is what they’re saying about Patrick true? Please tell me he’s okay.

I looked at the time—2:55 PM. The numbers seemed to swim in front of my eyes. I still had over an hour before my next client appointment, but I couldn't sit here doing normal work things when Patrick was in the hospital. Madison Hope Trauma Center was about three hours away normally, but if I drove fast and traffic cooperated, maybe I could make it there in under two hours.

My phone dinged with an incoming message, and I nearly dropped it in my haste to check.

Ken Henson: Yes, Ashleigh. I remember you. Can I call you?

I quickly typed my number with shaking fingers, then started shoving things into my bag haphazardly—my wallet, car keys, the leftover lunch Alex had insisted I take. Why did Alex have to quit today of all days? I knew it was selfish, but I really needed her support. She would have bullied someone into taking my appointment so I could haul ass out of here. I wasn't even finished packing when my phone rang, an unknown number flashing on the screen. The sound made me jump so hard I knocked my coffee mug off my desk, sending cold coffee splashing across my keyboard and important client papers. I ignored the mess and answered on the second ring.

"Hello?" I answered, my voice barely steady.

A sniffle sounded before a male voice responded, and I could hear the exhaustion and grief weighing down every word. "Hey, it's Ken." I could hear the tears choking his voice, and I was already shaking my head, denying what he was about to tell me before he could even say it.

"Patrick passed away about fifteen minutes ago."

The words hit me like a physical blow, like someone had reached into my chest and ripped out my heart with their bare hands. The room tilted sideways, and I had to grip the edge of my desk to keep from falling. My ears started ringing, and for a moment I thought I might actually pass out right there in my cubicle.

"No," I whispered, the word torn from somewhere deep inside me. "No, that's not... he can't be..."

"I'm so sorry, Ashleigh. I know how much he cared about you." Kenny's voice broke, and I could hear him struggling to keep it together. "The only reason I'm even calling you is because I talked to Patrick yesterday afternoon, after you guys had that meeting at Habberways. He couldn't stop talking about seeing you again. Said it felt like coming home, like all the pieces of his life were finally falling into place. He was certain he was going to make you fall in love with him again."

I could barely register the rest of his words. The world became background noise as one sentence bounced around my head over and over again: Patrick passed away. Patrick passed away. Patrick passed away.

"He's loved you since second grade, Ashleigh," Kenny continued, his voice getting softer. "Even when he was married, even during all those years when you two weren't talking... he never stopped loving you. You were the one that got away, the standard he measured everyone else against."

I don't know how I managed to speak when all I wanted to do was scream, but somehow I choked out, "How? What happened?"

"He sustained serious head and spinal injuries in the crash. The doctors did everything they could, but..." Kenny paused, and I could hear him taking a shaky breath. "He had some brain function initially, but not much. This morning, what little function he had left just... dwindled away until he was declared brain dead. We had to make the decision to..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. I understood. They'd had to let him go.

Brain dead. The words didn't make sense. How could Patrick be brain dead? He was supposed to call me today. We were supposed to start planning campaigns and stolen moments and the perfect life he'd promised me. He was supposed to teach me the meaning behind his celtic art tattoos and introduce me to Douglas and show me all the ways he'd changed and all the ways he'd stayed exactly the same.

There was loud commotion in the background, followed by someone yelling, "The press is here!" and more unintelligible shouting. I could hear car doors slamming and the chaos that came with media attention.

"Look, Ashleigh, I have to go deal with all this," Kenny said, his voice getting more strained. "But I'll send you details about the funeral when we have them, okay? I know Patrick would want you there."

Before I could say goodbye, before I could tell him how sorry I was for his loss, before I could ask a thousand questions that would never have answers, he hung up.

I sat there staring at my phone, the silence deafening. Around me, people continued their normal Friday afternoon routine—Janet from accounting walked by discussing weekend plans with someone from HR, a printer was jamming noisily in the copy room, the coffee machine gurgled to life in the break room. How was the world still turning when Patrick was gone? How were people still talking about mundane things when the most vibrant, alive person I'd ever known had just been erased from existence?

The grief felt like drowning. Like being pulled under by a riptide that came out of nowhere, dragging me down into darkness where I couldn't breathe or think or do anything but feel the crushing weight of loss pressing against my chest.

I don't know how long I sat there, but at some point my office phone rang—probably my client calling about our scheduled appointment. I let it ring until it went to voicemail, unable to summon the energy to care about anything as ordinary as work. Eventually I became aware of someone clearing their throat in that deliberate way people do when they want your attention.I looked up to find Mr. Martin leaning against the entrance of my cubicle with his arms crossed and an expression on his face that made my stomach turn. There was something almost gleeful in his eyes, like he was savoring this moment.

"I heard about Mr. Henson," he said, his voice thick with cruel satisfaction. "Tragic, really. But business is business."

I stared at him, unable to comprehend how anyone could be so callous, so completely devoid of basic human decency.

"I'm still certain you got that deal by spreading your legs," he continued, his voice dropping to that familiar serpentine whisper, "but no matter how it happened, the deal is done, the money's been transferred, and now the connection between you and Cypher Tech is officially severed. I'm pulling you from this account effective immediately."

Something inside me snapped. The grief that had been paralyzing me suddenly transformed into white-hot rage that burned through my veins like molten metal. I stood up slowly, feeling like I was consumed by the very lightning that lit up the sky, every nerve ending in my body sparking with fury.

This man—this pathetic excuse for a human being—was standing here gloating over Patrick's death like it was some kind of business opportunity. Like Patrick's life meant nothing more than a contract that could be reassigned.

"You know what?" I said, my voice deadly quiet. "You're right about one thing. This connection is officially severed."

I walked up to Mr. Martin, looked him dead in his cold, calculating eyes, and with every ounce of strength I possessed, slapped him across his smug face. The crack echoed through the office like a gunshot, and I heard several people gasp. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Keyboards went silent. Phones were abandoned mid-ring.

He stumbled backward, pressing his hand against his red, swelling cheek, his eyes wide with shock. For once in his miserable life, Jason Martin was speechless.

Before he could recover, before he could sputter out threats or demands or whatever pathetic response was forming in his tiny brain, I cut him off. It was my turn to talk.

"I'm done with this horrible company, and most importantly, I'm done with you and your entitled bullshit," I said, my voice carrying across the now-silent office. "You're a predator, a sexual harasser, and frankly, just a terrible human being. I quit!"

The words felt like liberation. Like chains falling away from my wrists, like stepping out of a prison I'd been locked in for three years without even realizing it.

I grabbed my purse, leaving everything else behind—my computer, my files, my stupid motivational posters, the plant Sandy had bought me that was probably going to die without my care. Let them throw it all away. None of it mattered anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Period. 

As I walked toward the elevator, I could feel every eye in the office on me. Some people looked shocked, others impressed, a few seemed scared. But I didn't care about any of them. I cared about exactly one person, and he was gone.

The elevator ride down felt endless, each floor a reminder of how quickly everything had fallen apart. When the doors finally opened to the lobby, Elroy was waiting for me—apparently my "escort" off the property, though his kind eyes held sympathy rather than judgment. Behind his desk sat a cardboard box full of Alex's belongings from her cubicle, hastily packed and ready for pickup. The sight of it hit me harder than I'd expected—my best friend had walked away from this place today, and now I was doing the same thing. At least she'd be okay. At least she was still alive and breathing and could start over somewhere new with Kristy and build the life she deserved.

"I heard about your friend," Elroy said quietly as we waited for the elevator. "I'm real sorry, Miss Ashleigh."

Of course he'd heard. News traveled fast in a building this size, especially when it involved someone as prominent as Patrick. I nodded, not trusting my voice, and he didn't push for more conversation.

I hugged Elroy goodbye, breathing in his familiar sweet scent of Jolly Ranchers and aftershave—small comforts in a world that had suddenly become foreign and hostile. Then I picked up the heavy box that contained the last pieces of my friend's time here.

"Do you want me to have your things collected as well?" he asked gently, his voice full of the kind of concern that came from watching countless employees over the years, seeing them through their best and worst moments.

I looked back toward the elevators, feeling the full weight of everything I'd just lost rising to the surface like water filling my lungs. I shook my head. "Burn it all." Nothing up there was worth saving anymore. Nothing there had ever really been mine.

The lobby suddenly felt like a different world—marble floors, modern art, the coffee shop where people were still ordering lattes and discussing office gossip like the universe hadn't just collapsed in on itself.

The rain still plummeted down as I got into my car. I turned on the radio out of habit and was immediately assaulted by the local DJ's voice: "We're getting word now that Patrick Henson, CEO of Cypher Tech, has been officially pronounced dead following last night's motorcycle accident. He was just twenty-five years old..."

I switched stations quickly, my hands fumbling with the dial, but each one I turned to was covering the same story. The afternoon drive shows, the news stations, even the classic rock station had interrupted their regular programming to discuss the "tragic loss of a young entrepreneur who was just hitting his stride."

They talked about his company, his innovations, his potential. They interviewed people who barely knew him, business associates who spoke about his "vision" and "drive" in the detached way people discuss strangers. None of them mentioned that he used to eat paste in art class, or that he'd once cried because he stepped on an ant, or that he still remembered my favorite meal after eight years of silence.

None of them knew that he'd tasted like wine and promises the last time I kissed him.

Finally, I just turned the radio off and drove home in silence, tears blurring my vision so badly I had to pull over twice to compose myself. The second time, I sat in a gas station parking lot and sobbed until my chest ached, until I was empty of everything except the hollow echo of loss.

The silence in the car was deafening, filled only with the sound of my own ragged breathing and the one thought I couldn't stop: Brain dead. Brain dead. Brain dead.

When I pulled into my driveway, I sat there for a moment, staring at the house that suddenly felt foreign to me. Everything looked exactly the same as when I'd left this morning—the white picket fence, the flower boxes I never watered, the porch light Sandy always left on for me. But I was a completely different person now. The woman who had lived here, who had complained about her job and worried about text messages and believed in second chances, was gone. In her place was this hollow shell who couldn't figure out how to exist in a world without Patrick in it.

I grabbed Alex's box and my purse, trudging to the front door like I was walking through quicksand. Every step felt monumental, like I was fighting against gravity itself.

The moment I stepped inside, I could hear the TV from the living room, and my heart sank even further.

"...the tragic loss of young entrepreneur Patrick Henson has sent shockwaves through the tech community. Colleagues describe him as a visionary who was passionate about digital privacy and user rights..."

I dropped Alex's box by the door with a thud that echoed through the entryway, and walked into the living room like a zombie. Sandy was curled up in her favorite chair, a bowl of popcorn forgotten in her lap as she stared at the screen with the kind of morbid fascination that comes with watching tragedy unfold in real time.

Patrick's photo filled the television—the same professional headshot from his company website, the one where he looked confident and successful and impossibly alive. Seeing his face blown up on our TV screen made everything feel surreal, like I was watching someone else's life fall apart.

Sandy looked up at me, her expression immediately shifting from casual interest to alarm. "Ashleigh? What's wrong? You look like—" Her eyes flicked to the TV, then back to me, and understanding dawned across her features like a slow-motion car crash. "Oh my God. Oh, honey, no. Please tell me this isn't..."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but stare at Patrick's face on the screen while the news anchor recounted the details of his death in clinical, detached language that made it sound like a business transaction rather than the end of everything that mattered.

"The twenty-five-year-old CEO was pronounced dead this afternoon after sustaining critical injuries in what police are calling a hit-and-run accident..."

Without a word, I turned and walked to my bedroom, closing the door behind me with deliberate quietness. I could hear Sandy calling my name, could hear her footsteps following me down the hallway, but I needed to be alone. I needed to process this in the only way I knew how.

I stood in front of my full-length mirror, staring at my reflection—at the woman who'd woken up this morning excited about her future, who'd gotten dressed up thinking Patrick might see her today, who'd spent hours crafting the perfect email about their business deal and worrying about whether she was being too clingy with her text messages.

The woman in the mirror looked exactly the same—same blue eyes, same blonde hair, same face that Patrick had cupped in his hands just last night and called beautiful. But everything inside her was shattered beyond repair.

I stared at my reflection until the face in the mirror became nothing but a blur of lines and colors, until my features dissolved into something unrecognizable. The woman looking back at me was a stranger—hollow-eyed and broken, a shell of who I'd been just hours ago.

I knew it then, deep down in my gut where the truth always lived, in that place where you can't lie to yourself no matter how much you want to. There was no way I was going to survive in a world without Patrick in it. There was no way I could wake up every morning knowing he wasn't out there somewhere, living his life, breathing the same air, existing in the same universe as me.

For eighteen years, there had been this invisible thread connecting us—something that always pulled us back together no matter how far apart we drifted. Through every on again off again, the Senior year separation, through all those years of silence and distance, I'd always known he was out there. That someday, somehow, fate would conspire to bring us back to each other again.

But now that thread was severed. Cut. Gone forever.

And I couldn't do it. I wouldn't do it.

The thought should have scared me, should have sent me running to Sandy or calling a therapist or doing any of the healthy, rational things that people are supposed to do when they're drowning in grief. But instead, it felt like relief. Like finally having permission to stop pretending that any of this was survivable.

I moved like I was walking underwater, mechanically peeling off my work clothes—the coral blouse and black skirt I'd chosen so carefully this morning when I still believed in futures and second chances and the possibility that today might be the start of something beautiful. Now they felt like a costume I'd been wearing to play a part in someone else's life.

I pulled on the biggest sweatpants I could find and a faded t-shirt that smelled like fabric softener and better days. Then I reached for my old college sweatshirt hanging on the chair by my door—the navy blue one that had gotten me through countless late-night study sessions and heartbreaks, soft from years of wear and washing.

I pulled open my dresser drawer and dug around through all the clothes, feeling around the bottom for the pain medications I’d been prescribed a few years ago after my wisdom tooth surgery. I found the bottle and shoved it deep into my pocket, the pills rattling softly against the plastic.

When I emerged from my bedroom, Sandy was standing in the kitchen like she’d been waiting for me, her face etched with worry and confusion. A container of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream sat on the counter with two spoons balanced on the lid—her go-to solution for every heartbreak, every disappointment, every crisis we’d weathered together over the years.

"Where are you going?" she asked softly as her eyes took in my tennis shoes and the sweatshirt I only wore when things were really bad.

"I'm just going for a walk down to the park," I said, amazed at how steady my voice sounded when everything inside me was screaming. "I need some air. I need to think."

I looked at her standing there in her favorite pajamas with the little tacos on them, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders, her brown eyes full of worry and love and the kind of fear that comes from watching someone you care about disappear right in front of you. I memorized every detail—the way she unconsciously twisted her earring when she was nervous, the small scar above her left eyebrow from falling off her bike as a kid, the constellation of freckles across her nose that she always tried to hide with concealer.

"I'll see you around, okay?" The words tasted like goodbye because that's exactly what they were. "I love you, Sandy."

She stepped forward, reaching for me, her intuition clearly sensing that something was very wrong with this picture. "Ashleigh, wait—"

But before she could finish her sentence, before she could ask the questions I saw forming behind her eyes, before she could try to talk me out of what I already knew I had to do, I walked out the front door and into the gathering darkness.

The streetlights flickered on one by one as I walked down the familiar sidewalk, their yellow glow casting long shadows that seemed to reach for me like fingers. The air was still heavy with moisture from the morning's storm, and everything smelled like rain and wet earth and endings.

In the distance, I could see the dark outline of the park where Patrick and I used to meet when we were kids, where we'd carved our initials into that old oak tree and made promises about forever that we'd been too young to understand. Where we'd shared our first kiss and our last one, where we'd planned futures that would never come to pass.

Where everything had started. And where everything would end.

My phone buzzed in my pocket—probably Sandy calling to check on me, to make sure I was really just going for a walk like I'd said. I pulled it out and saw her name on the screen, along with three missed calls and a text:

Sandy: Please come home. We can figure this out together.

But there was nothing to figure out. Patrick was gone, and with him, any possibility of the life we'd dreamed about building together. The universe had given us one perfect night, one chance to get it right, and then it had ripped him away before we could even begin.

I turned off my phone and kept walking toward the park, toward the tree where our story had begun, where our names were still carved in bark that had grown and changed but never forgotten.

Some love stories get happy endings. Some get second chances.

Ours got twenty-four hours.