I truly believed I was going to die in that hospital bed.
Not because of what the doctors said.
Not because of the machines.
Not even because of the pain that tore through my body every time I tried to move.
The worst part was the silence.
A silence so heavy it felt alive.
It pressed against the walls of the room.
It filled every corner.
It sat on my chest when the lights went dim and the hallway outside my door grew quiet.
During the day, there were voices.
Nurses moving in and out.
Doctors speaking in soft, measured tones.
The beeping of monitors.
The shuffle of footsteps.
But at night…
It was different.
At night, the room felt endless.
Empty.
Cold.
Like I had been left alone at the edge of the world.
I remember lying there unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling, convinced every breath might be my last.
My body ached in places I couldn’t even name.
Bruises bloomed across my skin like dark flowers.
Every inhale burned.
Every exhale felt uncertain.
And then she appeared.
The first night, I thought I was dreaming.
A girl sat in the chair beside my bed.
Dark hair falling over her shoulders.
