Chapter 27
Anna
It must be awful—to have him as your doctor.
To have someone care for you for so long, watch over you, fight for you… and somewhere along the way, without meaning to, you fall for him. And then he just disappears.
Like it meant nothing.
I remember what Chloe once told us when I first saw him, that he’s cold, that he never gets attached, that to him people are just cases, just files, just numbers on a chart.
And maybe that’s how it has to be. Maybe that’s how doctors survive doing what they do every day.
You can’t carry every patient in your heart. You’d break.
Most of the time, we really are just numbers in the system.
I understand that.
So why does it still hurt like this?
This must have happened to other patients before me. I shouldn’t be shocked. I shouldn’t be this affected. I should have protected my heart better.
But I didn’t.
And now I’m the one paying for it.
It’s bad enough that my husband abandoned me, tried to pull the plug on my life. The man who was supposed to love me, fight for me, protect me. And then, as if that wasn’t cruel enough, he replaced me with my so-called best friend.
So could you really blame me for falling for another man?
Yesterday, when I saw Dr. Collins, my whole body felt warm in a way I can’t explain. Just seeing him made something inside me crack, made me feel…lighter. Hopeful. Ridiculous.
I thought—maybe he would come in. Maybe he would say something. Even just “How are you feeling today?”
But he didn’t.
He stayed in the doorway. Looked at me like I was a memory he was trying to forget.
And then he walked away.
I tell myself it shouldn’t matter. He’s just my doctor. Or he was.
But it does matter.
Because even if I was just another patient to him…He was never just another doctor to me.
Dr. Branson came in first.
He went straight to the monitor, eyes scanning the numbers, then checked my pupils, my pulse, my breathing—everything he always checked. He spoke to me softly, asking simple questions, testing my awareness.
I tried. I really did.
My lips moved, but no sound came. My throat felt thick, useless. Every attempt left me more tired, more frustrated.
Then the speech therapist arrived. We tried again. Mouth movements. Breath control. Sounds that never formed. Nothing worked. No progress at all.
I could see the concern in both their faces.
A little later, a nurse came in carrying a small bowl of porridge. My feeding tubes had been removed that morning, and this was supposed to be my first real step back to normal.
She lifted the spoon gently.
“Just a little, Miss. Mathews.”
I opened my mouth slowly. Took one bite. Swallowed.
That was it.
She tried again. I turned my face slightly away.
The speech therapist encouraged me, softly, patiently. I didn’t respond. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t care.
Dr. Branson took the bowl from the nurse.
“Let me try.”
He fed me slowly, carefully. I still refused. Minute after minute passed. Ten minutes of patience. Ten minutes of me doing nothing.
Then the door opened.
Dr. Collins walked in.
“How’s therapy going?” he asked.
“Not improving,” Dr. Branson said. “She doesn’t want to eat. Dr. Sampson cleared her for pureed food.” He nodded toward the speech therapist. Then he held the bowl out. “Here. You try.”
The moment he took that bowl, my heart betrayed me.
It started pounding—hard, fast. Too fast.
I saw them all glance at the monitor as the numbers climbed.
I felt exposed. Embarrassed.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Dr. Collins said quietly, nudging Dr. Branson to look at the screen.
“That’s exactly why it is,” Dr. Branson replied.
Dr. Collins stepped closer, holding the bowl. I tried to calm myself, to slow my breathing, to stop my heart from racing. I was probably blushing. I felt like I was.
He lifted the spoon.
“Just a little,” he said gently.
I opened my mouth.
I swallowed.
Then another bite. And another.
I didn’t refuse him. I couldn’t.
His eyes stayed on me the entire time, warm and careful, like he was afraid I might disappear again. And I couldn’t look away either.
When the bowl was empty, the room was quiet.
Dr. Branson and the speech therapist exchanged a look. The nurse stepped forward and took the bowl from Dr. Collins’s hand.
“What’s your verdict?” Dr. Collins asked.
Dr. Branson exhaled slowly. “I think you need to be present in every session,” he said. “Do it for her well-being. Right now… you’re the only thing that’s working.”
Dr. Collins nodded in agreement. And that made me excited.
After the speech therapist and nurse left, it was just Dr. Collins and Dr. Branson in the room. Collins was about to leave when Dr. Branson’s voice stopped him.
“Stay,” he said firmly. “The physiotherapist should be here any minute. Be her emotional support during therapy. She seems to respond when you’re around. Yesterday, we didn’t make any progress.”
Collins glanced at me, his dark eyes lingering a moment longer than usual. I could feel the tension in the air, the weight of his presence. Then he nodded, quietly, as if agreeing to something unspoken. “Okay, I’ll stay.”
A few minutes later, the physiotherapist arrived—a bright, cheerful woman carrying a small bag of equipment. She moved with practiced ease and gentle authority.
“Her muscles are still extremely weak, and she’s stiff in some joints,” she explained to the doctors, gesturing toward me. “We’ll start gently, but it’ll be a long process. She’ll need encouragement.”
I tried to sit up straighter in the bed, my stiff joints protesting, and instantly I felt his gaze on me.
Collins moved closer, positioning himself where I could see him without obstructing the physiotherapist. Just seeing him there…
it steadied something inside me, like a lifeline I hadn’t realized I’d been holding onto.
The therapist began with gentle movements. She lifted my arms, bending them slowly, then guided my legs. She helped me stretch, coaxing my stiff joints without force. Each time she encouraged me to breathe, I felt my chest tighten.
And then came the moment I froze. The movement became slightly harder. My hands clenched the sheets, my jaw tight, my body refusing to obey. My heart raced, a familiar fear of failure creeping in.
Collins noticed immediately. He stepped closer, sliding his hand over mine. His dark eyes locked onto mine, calm, steady, grounding.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured his thumb brushing over my fingers in a gentle rhythm. “You can do this. I’m right here.”
I wanted to flinch, to pull away, but something in his touch, in his presence, made me try. I mirrored his breathing, slow and steady, letting him guide me. Every whisper of encouragement from him pulled me through the hesitation, until I felt capable.
Alone with the physiotherapist, I would have stopped entirely. My body would have frozen; my mind would have shut down. But with Collins there—watching me, patient, unshakable—I felt… brave.
I pushed a little further. My small movements became obvious enough that he noticed. My hand squeezed his briefly, almost involuntarily, when I succeeded at something I had thought impossible. My breathing steadied; the tension in my muscles loosened just a little.
The physiotherapist glanced at him, her smile knowing, approving. “Looks like she’s responding better with you here,” she said softly.
I couldn’t say anything, but inside, a tiny flame of hope sparked. He was right there. Watching me, encouraging me, steadying me. Every small improvement felt monumental because of him.
Collins didn’t need to say a word. I could feel what he thought in the set of his shoulders, the way he held my hand.
He was here for me, and that’s when I realized just how much I needed him.
My anchor, my calm in the storm, my reason to keep moving, to keep fighting, even when my own body wanted to give up.
And right then, I decided, I would try. For him, for me, for the small victories we could claim together.