24. What Might Have Been #2
“Hi,” she greets gently. “I’m Savannah. This is Lukas, Sam, and Ezra.” She nods toward the men waiting just behind her. “We’re going to take you to the hospital and get that ankle checked out, alright?”
I manage a shaky nod. “Okay.” The word falls barely above a whisper.
Sam rolls the stretcher closer while Lukas and Ezra take their places on either side of me. Savannah carefully lifts my leg, sliding the foam roller out from under it with painstaking care. It doesn’t matter though, because at this point even breathing sends pain shooting down my ankle.
“May we lift you?” Ezra asks softly.
I nod again and lift my arms, the scratchy tulle dragging against my legs and sending a shiver down my spine.
Lukas and Ezra lift me in one fluid motion while Savannah steadies my ankle. Once I’m settled on the stretcher, they prop the foam roller beneath my leg again, and Sam angles us toward the exit.
A hush falls over the room. Lily, Gabriel, and Dillon stand with the other dancers against the wall, watching my downfall unfold in real time.
Lily’s tears spill down her cheeks in steady rivulets, Gabriel holding her tight against his side.
Even Dillon’s throat bobs like he’s holding something back.
The sight of them cracks me open further.
These people have shown me kindness in a world where kindness is rarely given without strings attached.
They’ve accepted me without hesitation, welcomed me like family, loved me as if I’ve always belonged.
They didn’t betray me like Sofia had. And I, so careless, stubborn, and blind, have shattered it.
Tears blur my vision again. I’ve destroyed everything good I’ve been given.
Savannah’s hand rests lightly on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Once we’re in the ambulance, I’ll give you a dose of ketorolac. It’s an anti-inflammatory. It should help with the pain.”
She doesn’t realize I’m not crying because of the pain. I’m crying for the lives I’ve just broken. Still, I manage a nod.
They lift me into the ambulance, and I scan the sea of concerned faces one more time. The face I need to see most is gone, though. Nik is nowhere. His absence hurts far more than the ache in my ankle.
I raise a shaky hand in a shallow wave goodbye. Lily buries her face into Gabriel’s neck and doesn’t look at me as the doors close. When the EMTs administer a painkiller and the ambulance lurches forward, my mind begins to reel through everything that’s led me here.
Savannah peels back the wrap around my ankle and begins a careful exam.
“You definitely have a ruptured achilles,” she states, gently twisting and palpating.
The pain is dulled by the medication, but I flinch anyway.
“I can’t be certain of the grade yet, but it feels like a grade-three, and that would require surgery. The doctor will confirm with imaging.”
“Surgery? Tonight?” My pulse spikes. If I need surgery… this could be career-ending.
A nerve-wrecking thought crosses my mind. Do I even want to dance anymore? The question sends chills down my spine. Dance has been everything to me. My mother’s dream I’ve been forced to carry—the only part of me that ever seemed to matter. If it’s taken away… who am I?
Savannah shrugs, pragmatic. “If it’s a grade-three, I’d recommend repairing it quickly. The sooner it’s fixed, the better the outcome. You’re looking at four to six months of physical therapy. Don’t wait if you want the best chance of returning.”
Four to six months. The words land like a ton of bricks. Somewhere in me, a small part is relieved, as if a pressure I’ve been holding my whole life might finally ease. But anxiety skitters under my skin anyway. How will my mother react? How can I bear telling her that everything’s unraveled?
When we arrive at the hospital they wheel me straight into a room and start imaging. The scan confirms what Savannah suspects: a grade-three achilles rupture. I’m totally screwed.
Dr. Cleary moves around my bed, clipboard in hand, jotting notes. “I recommend surgery, Eleanor,” she says, sympathy softening her tone. “Without repair, it’s unlikely you’ll return to dancing at the same level, and your risk of re-injury is much higher.”
My mouth goes dry. “When would it have to be done?”
“As soon as possible.” She checks her watch and skims the chart. “We could do it within the hour.”
My stomach drops, palms slick with sweat.
Dr. Cleary sets the clipboard down and sighs. “I know this is terrifying. I still strongly recommend the repair—even if you decide not to pursue dance afterward. I’ll step out for a few minutes. Think it over and tell me what you want to do.”
She leaves me with the fluorescent lights and the silence of the empty room.
Surgery sounds simple in theory. Repair it, rehab, and return.
But the timeline is a precipice, and I’m teetering on the edge.
Months spent disappearing into PT, working just to maybe get back to who I was.
And I’m not exactly in prime condition to fight months of recovery.
I reach for the clipboard and skim my chart. When my eyes land on my weight, the air leaves me.
Ninety-eight pounds. The lowest I’ve been since I was a child.
I set down the clipboard, look around at the uncomfortable chairs, the IV bags, and the thin hospital blanket. No one is here. No familiar voice, no hand to squeeze, no comfort.
For the first time since this all started, the isolation presses in. I want Nik. I want Lily. I want someone, anyone, to sit with me and tell me it’ll be okay. But the room remains silent, and the decision feels impossibly and unbearingly mine.
But if I’m going to heal, and rebuild my life, I have to fix every broken part of me.
When Dr. Cleary enters the room, I know what I have to do.
“Have you decided?” Her face is calm and businesslike.
Where I thought I’d feel fear, I only feel peace. A rush of relief leaves my lungs. “Let’s do it.”