Irina
I leaned over the sink, splashing cold water on my face. My reflection in the mirror was a stranger—sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, skin like parchment stretched over bone. Two months in a coma had ravaged my body, leaving me a shell of my former self.
"You shouldn’t be up," Noah said from the doorway, his voice low and gravelly.
I ignored him, focusing on the water trickling down my face. My skin hurt; every time I touched it, I shivered. I was hypersensitive everywhere. My arms trembled as I braced myself against the porcelain sink, my muscles atrophied and weak.
"I need to feel human again," I muttered, more to myself than to Noah.
He took a step closer. "Let me help you, Irina."
"I don’t need your help," I snapped, but even as the words left my lips, a wave of dizziness washed
