Chapter 22
Collins
Four months had passed, and she was still asleep.
I refused to accept that as an ending.
I had run every test available to me—then ran them again. Followed up on the smallest changes others might have dismissed. There were moments where her body responded. A faint reflex in her fingers. A slight shift in breathing when familiar voices filled the room. Tiny reactions, easily overlooked.
But not by me.
Those signs meant something. They had to. They told me her mind was still there, still fighting. Waking up didn’t feel like an impossibility anymore, just a matter of time. Maybe weeks. Maybe a few more months. But I couldn’t imagine this stretching into years. Not with what I was seeing.
Michael came by again.
Not to sit. Not to talk to her. Just to look long enough to reassure himself that he had made the right choice. That whatever guilt he carried was justified. I watched him from a distance, my jaw tight, my patience thinner than I liked to admit.
I’d grown close to her father and sister in these months. Closer than I ever expected. Somewhere along the way, I even picked up some sign language enough to follow conversations without needing constant translation. Enough to feel included.
Enough to learn about Anna.
What foods she loved. The ones she refused to touch. Her hobbies. Her stubborn streak. The things that made her smile. The things that irritated her beyond reason. The way she loved deeply and trusted fully.
And Michael, He was her first love.
The thought bothered me more than it should have. A quiet, unwelcome jealousy settled in my chest every time her father mentioned him, every time her sister signed his name.
What am I even thinking?
At the rate Michael checked in, it felt inevitable that he might try to come back. That once she woke up, once she opened her eyes, he’d step back into her life as if nothing happened.
But everything did.
He divorced her. He moved on publicly, carelessly, while she lay here, suspended between worlds. And I couldn’t stop wondering what she would feel when she learned the truth. When she realized what her so-called friend had done. What her husband had allowed.
These questions shouldn’t matter to me.
They shouldn’t touch me at all. But they did.
Because somewhere between the long nights, the careful monitoring, the conversations with her family, my feelings had changed. Deepened. Rooted themselves in places I didn’t mean to open.
And bonding with the people who loved her most only made it harder.
Because the more I learned about Anna… the more impossible it became to imagine letting her go.
I glanced at the crystal jar. Three diamonds nestled among just over a hundred beads.
Each one marked a memory, a day, a quiet confession of my feelings.
In two weeks, I’d be purchasing the fourth diamond—marking four months since the day I realized I was in love with her.
And with every passing day, the feeling only grew stronger.
My shift ended hours ago, but I didn’t clock out. Not until I’d seen her last. Not until I’d made sure she was still breathing, still safe, still…here. She was so impossibly perfect, even in a deep, unbroken sleep.
I didn’t want to leave her side tonight. I couldn’t.
So I sat beside her bed, letting the quiet hum of the monitors fill the room. I held her hand, warm beneath mine, small and delicate.
Then, something. A subtle twitch in her fingers. A tiny, almost imperceptible movement.
I jolted upright, my pulse spiking. I wasn’t imagining it.
My hands hovered over her, scanning for another sign, maybe a shift of her arm, a flicker of her eyelid, anything.
I ran through a few tests, checked the monitors, traced the lines of her vitals.
But nothing screamed that she was about to wake.
Still, the movement felt real.
I decided to stay. Even as exhaustion threatened to pull me under, even as my eyes grew heavy, I refused to leave. I couldn’t, not while she stirred again, subtly, under my hand.
I whispered softly, almost to myself, “I’m here… always.”
And then I settled back, keeping watch through the night. Not just as her doctor. Not just as the man who had fallen quietly, for her. But as someone who would stay, silently, until the first sign of her return.
I stirred awake to a strange, gentle sensation. Fingers slid hesitantly through my hair, unsure, searching. My eyes snapped open, and panic hit me. I didn’t realize I dozed off, my head resting against Anna’s bed.
As I lifted my head, a pair of blue eyes—vivid, alive, unblinking, met mine. My heart lurched, nearly stopping mid-beat. I rubbed my eyes, certain I was dreaming. But when I looked again, those eyes didn’t vanish.
“You’re… you’re awake,” I stammered, my voice barely audible, cracked with disbelief. Words failed me. My chest felt impossibly tight, my hands trembling just slightly as adrenaline surged.
I forced myself up, switching instinctively into doctor mode.
Equipment out, vitals checked, monitors reconnected.
Heart rate. Blood pressure. Pupils. Reflexes.
Every movement, every sound, every small sign of response was noted with meticulous care.
And then… a laugh escaped me, light and shaky, full of relief and joy.
“You’re awake,” I whispered again, softer this time, almost to myself.
I felt the impulse to hug her, to wrap her in my arms and never let go.
But I caught myself. Composed, I lifted her hand gently and pressed it to my lips.
Even that felt wrong—too intimate, too impulsive.
“I… I’m sorry,” I said, quickly. My voice was trembling.
Four months. Four months I had waited for this moment.
“Hi, Miss. Mathews,” I said, my tone steady but gentle. “I’m Dr. Collins. Your neurosurgeon.”
Without hesitation, I rang the emergency bell. Nurses came running, professional urgency in every step. “Call her family,” I instructed, my heart hammering. “Miss. Mathews is awake.”
One of them hesitated. “Should we notify her husband?”
“Call him. But I need to speak to him first.”
I returned to her bedside; my gaze locked on her. Those eyes—wide, luminous, entirely breathtaking—held mine with a clarity I hadn’t dared hope for. The room blurred around me. I couldn’t stop staring.
She was breathtaking. Every line, every curve, every detail magnified by the vulnerability and intensity of this moment. I felt tears prick at my eyes, a mixture of awe, relief, and a depth of emotion I hadn’t anticipated.
And in that instant, despite the monitors, the medical protocols, and the weight of responsibility, all I could do was marvel at the fact that she was here—awake, alive, and impossibly, achingly beautiful.
I stayed until the room filled—nurses moving in with quiet urgency, monitors being adjusted, voices overlapping in controlled chaos. I kept my distance, anchored myself in routine, in procedure, in the comfort of things I could do.
Professional. Composed. In control.
Only when Anna was no longer just my moment—when she was stable, observed, surrounded—did I step back.
“I’ll be right outside,” I said to no one in particular. My voice didn’t betray me. No one noticed the way my jaw locked, or how my hands curled into fists at my sides.
I walked down the corridor slowly, afraid that if I moved too fast, I might lose the fragile grip I had on myself.
The call room door clicked shut behind me.
And that was it.
The moment I was alone, everything I’d been holding back crashed down at once.
I braced my hands against the counter, head bowed, breath tearing out of me in a way that wasn’t dignified or controlled. My shoulders shook—just once—before I clenched my teeth, swallowing the sound that wanted to escape.
Four months. Four months of silence.
Of loving someone who didn’t even know me.
I dragged a hand down my face, but it didn’t stop the tears. They came anyway—hot, relentless—sliding over skin that hadn’t known softness in years.
“She’s awake,” I whispered to the empty room, as if saying it out loud might finally make it real.
My legs gave out and I sank onto the chair, elbows braced on my thighs, face buried in my hands.
Relief hit first. Pure and overwhelming. She was alive. She was here. Those blue eyes—focused, aware—burned behind my closed lids.
Then fear followed, sharp and merciless.
What if she didn’t remember?
What if she remembered everything?
What if she wanted nothing to do with me?
And worst of all…
What if she never needed me again?
The thought hollowed me out.
Somewhere along the way, without meaning to, I’d built my life around her. My nights. My hope. Watching over her had become the quiet centre of my world—and now that centre was shifting.
I wiped my face quickly when I heard footsteps outside, straightening my spine, forcing my breathing to slow.
Doctor first, man second, always.
When I stood, my reflection in the mirror looked different—older, maybe. Softer in places I’d never allowed before.
But there was something else, too.
Hope.
I took one last steadying breath, squared my shoulders, and opened the door.
Anna was awake.
And nothing would ever be the same again.