I pushed up anyway. Muscles trembling, heart racing, legs wobbling in ways that would have mortified me six weeks ago. The prosthetic clanged and whined against my gait, uncooperative, alien, yet I forced it to obey. My knees threatened revolt, my hip fired a protest. I faltered once, twice, and swore under my breath.
Anya moved closer without thinking, hand hovering near my back. I hated it, or maybe I loved it, couldn’t decide.
“I’ve got it,” I muttered, half to myself, half to the world, half to her.
Seconds stretched. Doctor Singer coached, adjusted, and encouraged. I stood taller than I thought I could. It wasn’t graceful or triumphant, but I felt a hundred feet tall.
“Okay,” Noelle finally said. “Sit.”
I lowered myself slowly, stubbornness giving way to exhaustion. Relief and shame tangled together. Anya crouched in front of me, silent, steady, hands resting lightly on my knees. “You’re pushing too hard,” she said, quiet and factual.
“I need to,” I said, voice rough, breath uneven. “I need to feel… normal.”
She didn’t argue. Didn’t scold. She just let me be, a tether in the chaos of pride and fragility, letting me hold on to the version of myself I so desperately wanted, while reminding me silently that it was okay to fail.
After Noelle was gone, the house suddenly became too quiet, the air holding all the tension she’d disciplined away. I stood there, prosthetic strapped on, walker at the ready, feeling every clank and tug like it was shouting at me:you’re not whole yet.
Anya lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp but soft. “So?” she said.
“So,” I echoed, taking a tentative step. Then another. Each movement was awkward, clunky, a negotiation with gravity and pride. I could feel the sweat prickling my scalp, my heart hammering from exertion and her quiet, although kind, scrutiny.
She didn’t say anything, just watched. That alone was enough to unbalance me. The prosthetic felt foreign, heavier than it had moments ago with the therapist’s guidance, as if it knew she’d left and wanted to remind me I wasn’t ready.
“Again,” I muttered, voice low. Not a request, but a command — to myself. I tried to straighten my spine, to carry the image of the man I used to be through every tremble of my legs. “I want to go again.”
Anya stepped closer, careful, but close enough that I felt her presence press against my shoulder without touching me. My bodyreacted before my brain could protest. The tiniest tremor ran through me, and I realized my hands were gripping the walker harder than necessary.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” she said, voice quiet, like she was speaking just to me, not the room.
I glared at her, stubborn. “I do.”
She raised an eyebrow, a smirk barely hidden. “You’re ridiculous. You’ll hurt yourself.”
I felt a pulse of something hot, something dangerous, and I hated how much I liked it. Another step. Another. I was moving. I was standing. I was… almost normal.
“Careful,” she whispered, almost shyly, and I wanted to turn, reach, pull her into the trajectory of my body just to prove I could.
I faltered, knee quivering, hips stiff. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even touch me. She just let me wobble, letting the tension hum in the space between us.
“Want me to help?” she asked, voice pitched low and deliberate.
I wanted her to. I wanted her to wrap around me, steady my pride, steady my body, steady everything that was too fragile for me to admit. But I shook my head stubbornly. “No,” I said. “I’ve got this.”
She let me try anyway, and I did. Step after step, muscles screaming, breath jagged. I was alive. Clumsy, sweaty, almost triumphant. And through it all, she hovered, hands ready but not touching, warmth in the quiet space beside me.
Finally, I sank into the couch, prosthetic clunking against the floor. My body ached, my pride stung, and my heart — stupid, impossible heart — was racing for reasons I wouldn’t admit aloud.
Anya crouched beside me, hand brushing my arm — not intentionally comforting, just… there. Enough. Enough to remind me that even if I wasn’t the man I’d been, I wasn’t alone.
And in that quiet, clunky, imperfect victory, I realized I wanted her close, wanted heralwaysclose, even if it made me weaker.
I told myself I was just adjusting the strap, just shifting myweight, just proving to myself I could get up without making a production of it. My hands went to the walker out of habit, pride flaring stupid and immediate.
Anya noticed anyway. She always did.
“Desmond,” she said, warning threaded softly through my name.
“I’m fine,” I said, already pushing up.
