Chapter 24
Collins
I lingered at the doorway, watching.
Her father and sister arrived first—soft voices, careful smiles, the kind of presence that didn’t overwhelm her. They spoke gently, grounding her, filling the room with something familiar and safe. She smiled faintly at them, composed, almost serene.
I glanced at the monitor.
Steady and reassuring. Good.
Then Michael arrived.
He stopped beside me, lowering his voice. “You wanted to speak to me first?”
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Please don’t mention the divorce. Not now. It could break her.” I held his gaze, making sure he understood. “Be with her as if nothing has changed. She needs stability. Don’t risk her fragile state.”
He nodded, uneasy but compliant, then moved to her bedside. His hand hovered over hers before settling gently. I watched the monitor again.
Barely a shift. Almost nothing.
But her smile faded the moment she saw him.
She didn’t pull away. She didn’t react. She simply stared at him—too still. Then her gaze slid back to her father and sister, as if anchoring herself there instead.
Something about it unsettled me.
I stepped closer, intending to check her positioning, make sure she was comfortable. And then she looked up. Straight at me.
The monitor reacted instantly.
A subtle spike—nothing dramatic, but enough to tighten my chest. Enough to make my breath hitch.
Am I scaring her?
Did I move too suddenly?
I slowed immediately, every step measured. I kept my posture open, non-threatening, the way you’re trained to. Her hand shifted slightly, brushing against the mattress—an unconscious motion, almost like she was reaching for something she didn’t yet understand.
My heart skipped.
I forced my expression into neutrality, even as recognition flared through me—sharp and terrifying. She saw me. Really saw me.
Stay calm. Don’t let her know how much this affects you, I told myself.
I moved closer to the monitor, pretending to adjust a setting. Her pulse began to settle again, the line smoothing out—but that initial spike stayed burned into my mind.
Was it anxiety?
Excitement?
Or something tangled between the two?
I lingered a second too long.
Her eyes—wide, alert, searching—held me there. I swallowed hard and looked away, focusing on the numbers, the beeps, the data. Anything but the weight of her attention.
But I couldn’t lie to myself.
That wasn’t just a number on a screen.
That was her—awake, aware, responding.
I exhaled slowly, grounding myself.
I can’t mess this up. I won’t. Not now. Not ever.
Every adjustment I made, every careful movement, every unspoken reassurance—it was all for her. Because for the first time in months, I felt the full weight of what I’d been protecting her from.
And I wasn’t about to let it break her now.
I stepped out of the room, forcing myself to put distance between us before emotion could override reason. The corridor felt colder somehow, quieter, as if the hospital itself was holding its breath.
I went straight to the nurses’ station and began issuing orders—clear, precise, automatic.
Speech therapy consults. Physiotherapy. Occupational therapy.
Neurology follow-up. Neuropsych, flagged but not urgent.
She’d been asleep too long for anything to be rushed now.
The nursing team had carried her through the waiting. Now it was time to help her come back.
As I signed off on the referrals, my hand paused for just a second longer than necessary over her name.
Anna Matthews. Awake.
I exhaled slowly and turned away.
“Makes it real, doesn’t it?”
I looked up to see Marlon standing a few steps down the corridor, coffee in hand, watching me with that knowing expression that said he already had the full picture.
“I heard she’s awake,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “She is.”
I hesitated, then added, “I’m running a few more tests. Once I’m satisfied neurologically…she’s all yours. I’m assigning a neurosurgeon to oversee her brain follow-ups”
Marlon studied me for a moment. “You sure you want to do this?”
I knew what he meant. Passing her care on. Stepping back. Letting someone else take over now that she no longer needed saving—but healing.
“Yes,” I said firmly, even if my chest tightened as the word left my mouth. “Absolutely. Keeping her under me now would only complicate things. She needs consistency. Objectivity.”
He stepped closer and gave my shoulder a brief pat. “That’s the right call.”
I nodded, though it felt anything but easy.
“Keep me in the loop,” he said.
“I will,” I answered.
As he walked away, I stayed where I was for a moment longer, listening to the distant rhythm of machines, footsteps, voices—life continuing around us.
She was awake. And since she came back, I understood that loving her might finally mean letting go.
Before Michael left, he stopped beside me, hesitation written plainly across his face.
“I noticed she isn’t able to talk,” he said quietly.
“That’s expected,” I replied. “She just woke up from a four-month coma. Her brain is still reorienting. Speech usually takes time to return.” I paused, choosing my words carefully.
“We’ve already assigned a speech therapist, a physiotherapist, and the rest of the rehabilitation team to guide her recovery. ”
He nodded, absorbing that. Then his brow furrowed.
“Physiotherapist?”
“Yes,” I said. “At this stage, she’s not able to walk.”
The question came next, heavy with fear.
“Will she ever be able to walk again?”
I didn’t rush the answer.
“Neurologically, there’s potential,” I said finally.
“The motor pathways appear intact, which is encouraging. But recovery isn’t determined by scans alone.
” I met his eyes. “The physiatrist will evaluate her overall rehabilitation potential, and together with the physiotherapist and occupational therapist, they’ll run functional tests. ”
“To see if she can walk?” he asked.
“To see if walking is possible, safe, and ultimately useful for her,” I clarified. “Those assessments will give us a clearer picture of what recovery might look like—and how long it may take.”
Michael exhaled slowly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
“Alright. Thank you, Doctor. Please keep me updated.”
“I will,” I said.
He turned back toward the room one last time before leaving, and I stayed where I was—already thinking several steps ahead, already planning how to give her every possible chance.