Can You Love Me Again.

“Multiple fractures. Cranial trauma. Internal bleeding. She's critical." The emergency room doors banged open as paramedics wheeled in a limp body, soaked in rain and shadow. Tubes snaked from Sarah Thomas's arms like artificial veins. Her head lolled sideways, matted hair sticking to a face too pale, too still. Nurse Abby clicked her pen nervously. “Patient's name?" “Ada Thomas," the maid answered, clutching a sodden handbag. “She's—she's Sarah. I found her." “She jumped from the rooftop?" the ER doctor asked, eyebrows drawing low. “And survived?" “Tree branches slowed the fall. Barely." Ada's voice trembled. Machines beeped. Monitors blinked. “Do you know if she has a living will?" the nurse asked. “No! She didn't want to die, she—she's just tired. She didn't mean—" Ada trailed off, choking on hope. Inside the silent storm of her body, Sarah heard them all. She floated—no weight, no pain. Voices echoed like distant ripples across a black lake. “She's got no will to live," the doctor muttered. “You can keep her alive, but only love will bring her back." Ada's heels clicked once, twice. “I'll call the family. Mr. Thomas, Mrs. Thomas, even Raymond. They'll come." Sarah laughed inside her mind, soundless and bitter. No, they won't. The last time Helena Thomas looked at her, it was through narrowed eyes and clenched teeth. “You're lucky we don't press charges," her mother had hissed. And her father? “Don't come back here unless you're ready to apologize to Lucy." Even Michael had turned away, eyes full of excuses. A merger. A legacy. A future that didn't include her. She hadn't screamed. She hadn't begged. She had just… walked. And then she had jumped. But fate was crueler than family. Wind. Then silence. Then the sharp, sick snap of branches. Then darkness. Now, this. “Ada," a nurse whispered outside the ICU bay, “you should go home. Rest." “I'll stay," Ada replied. “She hates hospitals. She used to cry when she saw needles." “I doubt she can feel much now." “You're wrong," Ada said. “She hears us." Inside, Sarah tried to shake her head. Tried to move a finger. A toe. Nothing. Just the steady beep. The hum of machines that forced her lungs to expand, then fall. Expand, then fall. She was tired. So tired. The world had stripped her name, her love, her family. And left her here, a ghost in her own skin. Footsteps. A deeper voice. “Is she awake?" Raymond. Sarah's heart—what was left of it—flinched. “She's stable but unresponsive," said the doctor. “She needs stimuli. Familiar sounds. Gentle pressure. Memories." “Hmph." That was all Raymond said. The door creaked. Leather shoes clicked to her bedside. “Sarah," Raymond said quietly. “You're ridiculous." Typical. “I told you Michael wasn't worth it." Still typical. “You wanted to be a martyr? You win. Everyone's talking about you. The heiress who jumped. Pity clicks all over the internet." Sarah wanted to scream. Or slap him. Or cry. But her body was a tomb. “Father's furious. You embarrassed him. Helena… she's pretending it didn't happen." A pause. “I came because Ada begged." Another pause. “I didn't think you'd actually go through with it." Long silence. Then, softer—almost broken—“I didn't want you to die." Something shifted in the air. She felt it. Regret? No. Not from Raymond. Guilt, maybe. Or worse—ownership. His hand brushed her wrist. “Come back," he whispered. “Just to spite us all." The door hissed open. “Visiting hours are over, sir," said the nurse. Raymond exhaled. “Of course." Then footsteps. Gone. Darkness again. But she could still feel the pressure where his fingers had been. Too hard. Too cold. And beneath it all… fear. Sarah wanted to vanish. To slide deeper into the void where no memories lived. Where Lucy didn't smile. Where Michael didn't lie. Where Helena didn't slap her, and Thomas didn't erase her name from the family registry. Instead, she floated in this cruel in-between. A nurse returned. “Ada, I brought you coffee." “Thank you." “Has she moved?" “No." “She's lucky to have you." “She's not lucky at all." Silence. Then Ada's voice, cracked with sorrow: “She used to ask me if I thought love could survive lies. I didn't know what to say." “What did you tell her?" “That love's a house you keep repairing. Until it falls." Sarah wanted to sob. But her eyes stayed closed. Somewhere, behind the veil, branches cracked again. The fall replayed. Air. Silence. Pain. She hadn't meant to live. Yet here she was. Alone. Still waiting for the curtain to fall.