I can’t do it. Not yet.
My legs stop moving, but my past keeps walking toward that door.
Every step forward feels like peeling off a scab.
Cole slips inside without a word, already settling into the chair beside the bed. But Adam stays back with me, his hand grazing my shoulder in silent support.
He knows.
He knows what this means to me. I was the one who caught Dad that night. The one who saw everything. And there are images in my head I will never unsee, no matter how many years pass. Scars that no one else can understand but Adam… he gets it. He always has.
“You got this, sis,” he whispers. “I’m right here with you. Every step.”
I turn to look at him, and for a moment, I’m twelve again. Nervous before my first volleyball game, clutching the sleeves of my jersey while Adam ties my shoes for me, telling me I was going to kill it out there.
He’s always been the emotional one, the soft one, the one who made me feel understood without needing me to say much.
I squeeze his hand, and we walk in together.
The room smells like antiseptic. My eyes are drawn instantly to the bed.
There he is.
My father.
He’s thinner than I remember. Pale, still, buried in a tangle of wires and machines that beep steadily like a fragile promise. He looks like he’s been emptied out, hollowed by whatever it took for him to hit rock bottom. His chest rises and falls, but otherwise, he’s motionless.
He looks... broken.
I inch closer, legs trembling as I lower myself into the chair beside him. I scan his face, searching for pieces of the man I used to know. There are a few new wrinkles around his mouth. Some gray in the stubble on his chin. But mostly, he looks the same. And that hurts more than I expected.
“He hasn’t regained consciousness since the accident,” Cole says from behind me. “It’s a non-medically induced coma. Neurological signs are good so far, the team’s optimistic. His femur is fractured, but that’s the worst of it. If he wakes up soon and stays stable, he’s got a shot at a full recovery.”
I nod, barely hearing him. His words feel far away.
Because I’m staring at my dad.
So quiet. So still. So... there.
I reach out, almost in slow motion, and wrap my fingers around his. His hand is warm, and rough with old calluses, but limp. No squeeze in return.
Still, I hold on.
“I’m here, Dad,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the words. “I’m right here.”
I don’t even realize I’m crying until a tear lands on his blanket.
And then—it happens.
The faintest twitch.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.
His fingers.
They moved.
His eyelids flutter, slow and uneven, like he's pushing through the weight of sleep, or maybe the weight of everything he’s done.
