Chapter 14
Collins
It had been three weeks. Michael was finally ready for discharge—upright, steady on his own two feet, looking far healthier than when he had arrived. Anna, by contrast, remained suspended in the stillness of a deep coma, utterly unaware of the world around her.
I moved aside quietly, giving Michael space to sit beside her bed. He reached for her hand, holding it as if sheer willpower could pull her back to him.
“Anna…I miss you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
“Please wake up.” He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, trying to keep his composure.
“You can’t do this to me,” he pleaded again, voice cracking.
I forced myself to look away, though it was impossible not to notice the tenderness in the moment—the way he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.
A strange feeling stirred in me, one that had nothing to do with professionalism. I turned my gaze to the monitors instead, forcing my hands to stay at my sides. Michael rose, whispering a final, “I love you,” before stepping back and then out of the room.
Once he was gone, the room's silence pressed in. I bent down to check her breathing, seeing her chest move up and down.
The blinds were letting too much sunlight through to her eyelids, so I adjusted them. My voice was soft, almost a murmur, though I knew she couldn’t hear me. “Everything’s okay,” I said. “Just rest… just breathe.”
I reached for the lip balm, uncapped it, and carefully applied it, a light layer with careful precision.
“I know you don’t like dry lips,” I whispered. Then I dispensed a small amount of lotion into my palm and worked it into her hands the same way I had watched her sister do—slow, methodical, ensuring the skin wouldn’t crack under the dry hospital air.
The familiarity of the routine felt strangely… grounding.
I stopped and pulled my hands back, knowing I'd lingered a bit too long.
I repositioned the call button within reach, even though she couldn’t use it, adjusted the blankets, and double-checked her vitals.
For the briefest instant, I allowed myself to imagine her waking, seeing the room, feeling the quiet devotion I had begun to build around her.
Then I drew a deep breath, reminding myself: I was here to keep her safe, not to intrude on the fragile boundary between life and consciousness.
I turned to the plant; the leaves looked thirsty, drooping slightly. I grabbed the water jug from the bedside table and gently poured, letting the droplets soak into the soil, then adjusted the temperature before stepping out.
Even as I left the room, my eyes flicked back to her one last time. She was still here, breathing. And I would stay until she opened her eyes again.
After my shift ended, I didn’t go home. I found myself driving to the mall instead, telling myself it was practical—nothing more than necessities.
I wandered the aisles longer than I meant to.
When I spotted a small teddy bear with soft brown fur, I stopped.
The one already sitting by her bed suddenly felt lonely in my mind.
No logic followed—just a quiet certainty.
I picked it up. Then a blanket, softer than the thin hospital-issued ones, the kind that held warmth without weighing you down.
A brush with gentle bristles. A pillow—supportive, but not stiff, far more comforting than anything the hospital provided.
Then I reached a display of crystals and polished stones. My eyes caught a small crystal jar and a pack of clear crystal beads, and I added them to my basket.
Finally, I found myself in the skincare aisle. My hand went almost automatically to the same hand lotion and lip balm her sister had brought. Her bottles at the bedside were nearly empty. Without thinking, I added them to the basket as well, small tokens of care I know she might never notice.
By the time I returned to the hospital, the corridors were hushed, the night staff moving with practised quiet. Her room was dim, lit only by the glow of monitors and the city lights shining through the blinds.
I carefully replaced her pillow, easing her head into a more comfortable position without disturbing her.
The tension in her neck softened almost imperceptibly.
I placed the new teddy beside the other one, their soft shapes guarding either side of her.
The blanket I folded neatly at the foot of the bed, close enough for colder nights.
I moved to the bedside and set the crystal jar in place,
And then it hit me, sharp and unwelcome.
I shouldn’t be here after hours.
I shouldn’t know the rhythm of her breathing, the faint hitch before the monitor steadies, the way her heart rate slows when the room grows quiet. But I do.
Some nights, I told myself I was only checking her vitals one last time. That it was professional diligence. A habit of a thorough surgeon.
That lie had stopped working weeks ago.
My hand found hers before my mind could intervene. Her fingers were warm, soft, utterly still, and somehow they grounded me. I traced the gentle curve of her knuckles with my thumb, committing the sensation to memory, a touch that shouldn’t mean anything.
But it did.
Every morning, I pulled away before the guilt had time to take shape, before the line I was crossing became too visible. I left with silent promises she couldn’t hear, promises I wasn’t sure I had the right to make.
I’m her neurosurgeon.
I’m supposed to save her, not fall for her.
Yet here I am… sitting in the dim light of her hospital room, realising the unthinkable…
And that’s when I, almost instinctively, dropped a single crystal bead into the jar.