Page 67 of Vital Signs
But now I neededherto.
That was the difference.
I hated it. Ihatedthat I needed it.
I made it up the steps with crutches and grit and a jaw clenched hard enough to crack molars. Sweat dampened the back of my shirt. My arms shook. Even after hours of physical therapy in the hospital, nothing could have prepared me forthis.
But Anya stayed close. Didn’t touch unless I wobbled. But she didn’t look away either.
Inside, the house smelled of nothing. Clean. Empty. Untouched since the night I hadn’t come home.
It felt wrong — like I didn’t belong in it anymore.
Home health would start the next day. In-home PT. Visiting nurses. A rotating cast of professionals who would see me at my worst.
Anya stood in my kitchen, still in scrubs, looking like she hadn’t slept in days.
“You can go home,” I told her.
She looked at me as if I’d said something stupid. “I just got you here,” she said. “I’m not leaving you alone on your first dayhome.”
I swallowed. “This isn’t your job.”
“I know.” I hated how the finality of her words brought a lump to my throat. Hated how much I wanted to lean into it.
Instead, I said the only thing that felt safer than admitting how much I needed her. “You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”
She stepped closer. “And you shouldn’t have to be like this alone.” And that was so much worse. Because it made me feel small and grateful, and undeserving all at once.
I had saved a thousand lives, and yet, I couldn’t save myself from needing her.
And sitting in my expensive, beautiful house, leg gone, pride in tatters, with Anya standing there like she wasn’t going anywhere?—
I realized something that scared me more than the accident ever had:
This wasn’t temporary.
This wasn’t just recovery.
This was the beginning of a version of me that would always remember how it felt to be carried.
And a version of her who knew exactly how much weight I could no longer hold on my own.
She busied herself almost instantly, little things, that felt like a grace I didn’t deserve yet. Changing sheets, starting laundry, going through expired food in the refrigerator.
Hours later… I dropped a glass in the sink because my hands were shaking. I was convinced I could put my dishes away, she had done so much… that I could do this.
But my hands were shaking.
Not from the pain. From effort. From exhaustion. From the quiet, constant calculation of how to exist in a body that no longer trusted me back.
It shattered.
Anya froze in the doorway.
“I’ve got it,” I said too quickly.
I bent.
