I don’t know how long I’ve been in the hospital.
Days blurred into weeks, then into something that felt like years. Half the time I slept; the other half I stared at the same square of sky through a window I couldn’t reach.
I used to be the one who ran into the dark, who pushed forward when others hesitated. Now I can’t even turn in bed without help. My muscles have thinned, my legs are dead weight under the blanket, and every glimpse of my own body feels like a personal insult.
People come and go. Friends from training. My mother’s church friends. Nurses with practiced pity in their eyes. They talk about the weather, about TV shows, about how “strong” I am.
My father doesn’t come at all.
I don’t know if it’s disappointment keeping him away, or guilt for ever believing I was ready. Ma
