celebrity one shots

Chyler Leigh (Lexie Grey)

"She hasn't moved." Dr. Bailey's voice was soft, but it carried an unbearable weight as she spoke to Alex. Her eyes were heavy, worn with the exhaustion of a month of trying to hold everything together. The plane crash had broken everything—everyone—but it had shattered you most of all. The woman who once lived with a fire in her eyes now sat in silence, completely still. It had been almost a month since the crash. Almost a month since you'd lost the love of your life.

Lexie had died in the most brutal way. The way her body had looked beneath the wreckage—the way she had been torn apart—was something you would never unsee. You couldn't get the image out of your mind. It had been you, trying to move the debris, trying to get to her, trying to do something—but there was nothing to be done. She was gone.

And now, here you were, a shell of who you used to be, sitting in a hospital room, paralyzed by grief. You hadn't spoken a word since you woke up after surgery. Not to anyone. Not to the doctors, not to your friends, and not even to yourself. The people who loved you had come in, one after another. Callie. Dr. Webber. Derek. Meredith. Alex. They would sit with you, speak at you—words meant to comfort, to fill the emptiness. But it was all just noise. Nothing they said could touch you. Nothing could reach you anymore.

But today... Today was different.

Your eyes—your eyes moved. For the first time in twenty-something days, you lifted your gaze, even if just for a moment. Your body was still a prison, but your eyes saw them. You locked onto Alex as he wheeled Mark into your room, a silent gesture of helpless support from the only person who still seemed to exist in the shattered world you now inhabited.

Alex paused at the door, glancing back at Mark as he stepped aside. He let the door swing closed, then slowly sat in the chair beside your bed. The silence between you was crushing, thick and suffocating. Mark didn't ask how you were. He knew better than anyone that there was no answer to that question. He didn't beg for you to talk, because he knew you wouldn't. Instead, he just sat there—waiting for the one thing he knew he might get from you.

A look.

"Hey, dude," Mark said quietly, his voice rough with the weight of his own grief. He waited for a response that never came, and yet, the look you gave him—cold, hollow, but undeniably present—was more than anyone else had gotten. It wasn't a spark of hope. It wasn't an invitation to speak more. But it was something. It was a small acknowledgment that you were still there, still in that broken body, still in that shattered mind. It was more than you had given anyone in weeks.

"I'm not sure what to say," Mark continued, swallowing hard, eyes clouded with emotion. "But I know I'm crashing... in one way or another we're all crashing. It's... it's harder than I thought it would be, Y/N. I never thought it would be like this." He paused, his voice catching, vulnerable. "I keep thinking about her—about Lexie—and I just... I don't know. I don't know how to breathe. And I don't know how to fix you." His voice dropped, full of grief and uncertainty.

He took a breath, his shoulders sagging with the weight of a promise he didn't know if he could keep. He leaned forward, his voice rough with raw emotion. "I'll take care of her, Y/N. I promise."

He said it like a vow, a promise that could never fill the space left by Lexie's absence. But it was all he had left to offer. In the silence that followed, the air in the room thickened with the brokenness of it all. You didn't respond. You couldn't. The weight of your grief—the emptiness of it—kept you bound in place.

You couldn't fix this. And neither could anyone else.

But you heard him. You felt his words—his broken promise—and somewhere deep in the void of your heart, you knew you couldn't keep yourself locked in this prison forever. Not because you were ready to move on or because the pain had faded.

But because... because you were still breathing. And breathing meant there was still time. Time for the wreckage of your heart to settle. Time for the memory of Lexie's love to burn through the fog of this despair.

And maybe, just maybe, time for you to move when the world and the grief that had a hold on you are ready to let you.

You opened your mouth, and the effort alone felt like it might tear you apart. Your throat was raw, your body exhausted, and the weight of everything pressing down on you was suffocating. Say something, you thought, just one word. You needed to feel something beyond the numbness. You had to make some kind of connection, even if it was just for a moment.

"Mark," you whispered. It wasn't a word—it was more like a breath caught halfway in your lungs. A rasping sound that scraped against your throat, jagged and broken. It was barely a whisper, an echo of the voice you used to have, the one that could command attention, that could bring warmth to a room. Now, it was just a shadow. A hollow sound that barely reached Mark's ears.

But he heard. His eyes flickered toward you, something raw and unspoken passing between you in that glance. His face, usually so full of bravado and dry humor, was softer now. Broken, just like you.

You could see it—the emotion swelling in his eyes, but he blinked it back, trying to be strong for you. But there was nothing left for strength. There was only the wreckage.

A pause. An unbearable, suffocating silence.

Then, you spoke again. Your voice cracked, fractured with the weight of grief, but the words spilled out anyway because they had to. They had been sitting inside you, buried under layers of numbness, waiting to be heard.

"Maybe I'll get famous," you said, your voice still hoarse but louder this time, as if trying to push past the silence that clung to the room. "Maybe I'll get famous as the woman who can't be moved." You let the words linger, tasting them. They felt wrong, too big, like a joke that didn't quite fit into the mess of everything you were feeling. But it was something. It was a piece of your shattered self leaking out.

You paused again, the weight of the room pressing down on you, suffocating you until the air became thick with the quiet.

"Maybe she won't mean to, but she'll see me on the news, and she'll come running to the corner, 'cause she'll know it's just for her. She'll know it's me, the woman who can't be moved. She'll know I'm still here. I'll still be here, waiting for her. And she'll come to me because I'm the one who can't be moved."

The words hung in the air, raw and sharp, like a promise, a prayer, a curse. The irony of it hit you like a wave, and the pain was so unbearable that it almost made you laugh. You—the woman who couldn't be moved. Who couldn't be shaken by loss, by grief. But in truth, you were shattering from the inside. Everything had moved you. The wreckage of the crash, the way Lexie had slipped away from you—had torn you apart in ways that could never be fixed. The woman who couldn't be moved? That was a lie. A facade.

But you said it anyway. Because the thought of someone coming to save you—of Lexie coming back, even just for a second—was all you had left.

"I'm the woman who can't be moved," you repeated, quieter this time, the weight of the words pressing against your chest. You didn't know if you believed it anymore. Maybe you had once. But right now, in this space between the wreckage of who you used to be and the raw grief of who you had become, you weren't sure of anything except this: You were still here. And somehow, that had to be enough.

Mark didn't speak. He didn't need to. He understood—perhaps better than anyone—that sometimes, the words we say are just the fragments of our broken hearts trying to hold themselves together, even if only for a moment.

And as the silence settled around you again, you realized that maybe this was the truth. Not the strength of the woman who couldn't be moved, but the raw, broken honesty of the woman who was still waiting to be put back together.