They'd spent the remainder of the night at the emergency room, and between the lines of many-syllabled words and non-existent healthcare options, she'd read terminal in the doctor's eyes.
This time there was only the beeping of heart monitors, and the sounds of people coughing and crying out in rooms up and down the labyrinthine hallways. This time there was no Angel. There was no music. There was no magic.
But this time she knew there was something to go back for, and she determined that she still wasn't ready yet. Not quite.
And so on New Year's Eve, just before midnight, after everyone had been forced to leave by the nurses, she got up out of bed and walked out of the hospital. She made her way back home under a sky lit by fireworks to the loft, where she was greeted by tears.
"Why?" asked Roger, when he'd finally calmed down enough to talk.
"Because. They say the way you spend New Year's Eve is the way you'll spend the next year. I'm not going to spend it in a hospital."
"You'll kill yourself like that," Roger said hoarsely.
"Maybe. But at least I'll finally be living my life my way."