Chapter 25
Anna
I was awake—yet still trapped inside my own body.
My mind felt alert, almost too alert, but my body lagged behind, heavy and uncooperative.
I could manage small movements. A slight curl of my fingers.
A weak shift of my hand. When I tried to speak, nothing came out.
My lips moved just a little, useless, as if the words were stuck somewhere deep inside me.
But when my sister and Dad entered the room, something inside me softened.
I managed a small smile.
It took effort—far more than it should have—but it was there. Real.
I couldn’t move my head much, but my eyes wandered, taking in the room.
And that’s when it struck me—this didn’t look like a typical hospital room.
It was… beautiful. Spacious. Soft lighting.
Warm tones. If it weren’t for the quiet hum of machines and the monitors beside my bed, I might’ve thought I was in some kind of luxury hotel suite.
My sister stood closer and began signing, her hands moving gently, carefully, as if she didn’t want to overwhelm me.
‘Dr. Collins is looking well after you.’
That made my smile deepen, just a fraction.
Because it was true. Somehow, I knew it.
Dad took my hand then, holding it like he was afraid to let go. His grip was warm. Steady. I saw the tears in his eyes before he could hide them.
“I’m so happy you’re awake,” he said, his voice thick, breaking around the words.
He couldn’t say much more than that. He didn’t have to. Everything he felt was already written on his face.
A few minutes later, Michael walked in.
He sat on the other side of the bed, directly across from Dad and my sister. The moment I saw him, my smile faded. I couldn’t stop it.
He reached for my hand, lingering a little too long. He looked remorseful—careful. Like a man playing a role he knew he no longer fully belonged to.
Pretending he was still my husband.
Even though we weren’t anymore.
Even though he was with her now. My so-called friend. The one who didn’t like me—but resented me instead.
Did she even know I was awake?
The thought made my chest ache.
Before the weight of it could pull me under, movement near the doorway caught my attention.
Someone else stepped in.
Dr. Collins.
The moment I saw him, something inside me shifted. My heart skipped—literally. I felt it, sudden and sharp, like my body reacted before my mind could catch up.
Whenever he was close, I felt… unsettled. Not uncomfortable. Just aware. Hyper-aware.
The kind of feeling you get when your crush walks past you unexpectedly.
Which was ridiculous.
He was my doctor.
And I had just woken up from a coma.
I didn’t even know how long I’d been asleep.
So why did it feel like my body knew him… even if my mind was still trying to catch up?
I watched him move closer, calm and focused, and for reasons I couldn’t explain yet, I found myself hoping he wouldn’t leave.
Then our eyes met.
I don’t know how long it lasted—seconds, maybe—but it felt suspended, like the room had forgotten to breathe. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from him. My body still wouldn’t listen to me, but my eyes did, locked onto his as if they were the only thing anchoring me to this moment.
Something passed between us.
It was subtle. Fragile. Almost imagined.
For a heartbeat, it felt like he sensed it too. Like he saw something in me beyond the patient in the bed. His expression shifted—softened—just enough to make my chest tighten.
And then he looked away.
I told myself, the look I’d seen, wasn’t anything special. That it had been concern. Professional sympathy. Pity. That was the reasonable explanation. The only one that made sense.
Still… a part of me wished it had been more.
He finished his checks quietly, efficiently and carefully. His hands were steady as he adjusted the monitor and noted something on the chart. He didn’t linger. Didn’t look back at me again.
And then he left.
The room felt different without him—emptier, colder somehow, even with my family still there.
That strange, hollow ache returned.
As if something important had stepped out…and taken the warmth with it.
After everyone left, the room slowly settled into silence again. The kind that presses in on you, heavy and soothing all at once. I drifted in and out of sleep, not sure how much time passed, minutes, hours, it all blurred together.
Then voices pulled me back.
Soft footsteps. Curtains shifting. The low murmur of medical staff doing what they always do.
I blinked, my eyes struggling to focus.
That’s when I saw a face I didn’t recognize.
He leaned closer, smiling gently, the kind of smile doctors use when they’re trying not to scare you.
“Hi, Miss. Mathews,” he said softly. “I’m Dr. Harper, your new neurosurgeon. I’ll be taking over from Dr. Ian Collins.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Taking over.
My chest tightened.
“And this is Dr. Marlon Branson,” he added, stepping slightly aside. “Orthopaedic spinal surgeon. He’ll be overseeing your recovery moving forward.”
Recovery Overseeing, Taking over.
A sharp panic flared inside me, sudden and overwhelming. My heart stuttered in my chest. Why? Why was he leaving? Had I done something wrong? Was he abandoning me now that I was awake?
No—no, please.
I wanted to shake my head. To ask where he was. To demand that he come back. But my body betrayed me. My mouth barely moved. No sound came out. My limbs felt distant, heavy, unresponsive. I was trapped inside myself, screaming into a silence no one could hear.
The numbness spread fast—worse than hearing my husband talk about divorce, worse than the moment I’d realized someone had once considered switching off the machines keeping me alive.
This felt personal.
Dr. Branson glanced down at my chart, flipping through pages, then looked back at me with an easy smile. Reassuring. Kind.
I didn’t return it.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of you.”
I believed him. Of course I did.
But that wasn’t the point.
Because even as he stood there, professional and calm, all I could think was—
He’s not the doctor I want.
He’s not the one who stayed.
He’s not the one who held my world together when I couldn’t.
“Your speech therapist will be here in about an hour,” Dr. Branson said, his tone calm.
“They’ll just run some initial assessments—nothing strenuous today.
” He paused, giving me a reassuring look.
“After that, your physiotherapist and occupational therapist will come by. Today is just for evaluations and tests, to see where you’re starting from.
No pressure, nothing beyond what you can handle. ”
He leaned slightly closer, as if reading my concern. “We’ll take everything at your pace. These first sessions are just to understand what’s possible and how best to help you recover.”