AN : / It's short, it might be not enough, but I am trying to do it the best I can.
Enjoy it. Read it, review it!
...
One week.
That's how long it had been since Arizona made her grand declaration of freedom—and yet, instead of liberation, all she felt was the suffocating grip of her own mind. Dr. DeLuca had ordered ten more days of bed rest, but the blonde was stubborn, restless, drowning in the stillness.
Because freedom, it seemed, was just another kind of prison.
She tried to distract herself—books, music, the mindless chatter of daytime TV—but nothing could silence the storm inside her. The worst part? The moments when she did manage to relax were the most unbearable. Because in the quiet, there was nothing left but the unevitable emptiness, the relentless what-ifs that haunted her.
Her parents' presence didn't help.
She was grateful, of course. They'd opened their home to her without hesitation. But her father's disapproval was a constant shadow, his warnings about Callie like a blade twisting in her gut."She destroyed you, Arizona. Don't forget that."
And her mother? Sweet, well-meaning Barbara, who spoke of single motherhood like it was some noble sacrifice—"I raised you and Tim alone when your father was deployed. It's hard, but it's worth it."As if Arizona needed another reminder of her failures. Then there were the not-so-subtle hints about opportunities—namely, the charming OB-GYN who kept finding excuses to check on her.
It was too much.
The pressure, the expectations, the way her own thoughts turned against her like a pack of wolves. Dark whispers slithered through her mind:You'll never be enough for them. You're broken. You'll fail them just like you failed her.
And God, the irony.
The only thing that ever brought her peace was the one person she'd pushed away.
Callie.
That night at the hospital—the raw confession, the way Callie's eyes had shimmered with tears—it replayed in her mind like a broken record. She'd bared her soul, told her she loved her, had always love her, and then… walked asked her to set her free. Wasn't it ironic?
Because distance was necessary. Because she couldn't bear the thought of Callie staying out of pity.
But what if she'd misread everything?
What if the tenderness in Callie's touch, the ache in her voice, wasn't love at all? Just guilt. Just longing for the family they'd lost. Just…a pity knowing she couldn't raise her kids alone and Callie still had some kind of baby fever.
And then there was the letter.
The one Callie had left behind. Unread. Untouched.
Arizona had stared at it for hours, her fingers trembling, too terrified to open it. What if it changed everything? What if it destroyed her all over again? And would she ever be ready to read it? Did she deerved to read it?
Tonight, the weight of it all finally crushed her.
She curled into herself, tears streaming down her face as she stared into the abyss of the night. The darkness offered no comfort, no answers—just an endless void, mocking her.
She missed Callie.
Not in the distant, muted way she had when Callie was in New York. This was raw,visceral, a physical ache in her chest. She missed the way Callie would hum under her breath while cooking, the way her nose scrunched when she laughed too hard, the way she'd hold her after a nightmare, whispering"I've got you" into her ear.
And the guilt—God, the guilt.
After the crash, after the amputation, after the way she'd blamed Callie foreverything… she'd never truly apologized. Never made her understand that the anger was just fear, just grief, just pain. She had been her scapegoat.
Now, it was too late.
Why would Callie ever listen to her now?
And then—
A scream tore through the silence.
Sharp. Piercing. Hers.
The pain was sudden, blinding, ripping through her abdomen like fire. She gasped, clutching at her stomach, her vision swimming.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
...
For Callie, the hospital had become a ghost town.
The halls were the same, the patients the same, the routine unchanged—but without Arizona, it all felt empty. Every time the automatic doors hissed open, her heart lurched, her eyes darting toward them like a reflex.
Maybe this time.
But it never was.
Sofia's visits were the worst. Arizona's parents always came to pick her up now, their interactions polite but strained. No more lingering goodbyes, no more shared smiles over Sofia's stories. Just… distance.
And the silence was killing her.
She told herself this was what Arizona wanted. Needed. Freedom. Space. A life without the weight of their history.
But at night, when the chaos of the hospital faded, the questions consumed her:
Was she eating?
Was she sleeping?
Did she ever think about her?
And the letter.
The one she'd poured her heart into, scribbling words she couldn't say out loud. Had Arizona even read it? Or had she thrown it away, another casualty of their shattered past?
The not-knowing was torture.
She missed her. Not just in the abstract, but in the details—the way Arizona would bite her lip when concentrating, the way her eyes lit up when she talked about surgery, the way she'd fit perfectly against her in bed, like two puzzle pieces finally aligned.
Now, there was nothing.
And the fear was paralyzing.
Maybe Arizona had moved on. Maybe she was happier without her. Maybe she'd already let go.
"Torres, come with me."
Callie jumped at the sound of Bailey's voice, snapping her out of her thoughts. There was something in Miranda's tone—too calm, too controlled.
That's never good.
"What's wrong?"Callie's pulse spiked, her mind racing."Tell me. Is it Sofia? Where is she? What happened?"
"Calm down, Torres. Sofia's fine. I think…"Bailey hesitated, which only made Callie's stomach twist tighter.
Oh God.
"Please, just come with me."
And in that moment, Callie knew.
Something was very, very wrong.
"Bailey, tell me."
A heavy sigh. A pause. Then—
"It's Arizona. She's being admitted. The ambulance is on its way."