Recovery + 

Recovery + 

One day later... + 

Addy's eyes flutter open for mere seconds before closing again, her lashes barely twitching. It's the smallest sign of life, but to me, it feels like the universe cracking open. Like hope fighting its way through the darkness. + 

She moves more now—little twitches of her fingers, tiny shifts of her legs beneath the blankets. It's not much. It's barely anything. But after watching her so still, so lifeless, for the past few days, these small movements mean everything . + 

She's still struggling to breathe on her own. The ventilator hums softly beside her, rising and falling with her lungs, doing the work her body isn't strong enough to do yet. But today is the day. + 

Today, they're taking out the intubation tube and switching her to a nasal cannula for oxygen support. + 

It's progress. A step forward. + 

A step closer to bringing her home. + 

I shift in my chair, rubbing my face with tired hands. My body feels hollow, like it hasn't belonged to me in days. Maybe it hasn't. Maybe my soul has been hovering over this hospital bed with Addy's, waiting for her to come back. + 

The door creaks open, and I snap my head up. + 

A team of doctors and nurses file in, their expressions unreadable but determined. Their presence alone makes my stomach churn. + 

I force myself to my feet, backing up against the cold wall to give them space. But I don't take my eyes off Addy. + 

Not for a second. + 

One doctor stands at the head of the bed, hands poised and ready to remove the tube. Another is positioned by her side, holding the equipment for the nasal cannula. A third hovers near the machines, fingers dancing over buttons, ensuring the ventilator alarm doesn't scream through the hospital when they disconnect it. + 

It's a whole process. A delicate, terrifying process. + 

I know this is progress. I know this is necessary. + 

But my heart is still racing. + 

I can barely breathe, and I'm not even the one with tubes down my throat. + 

I watch in silence as they work, my arms wrapped tightly around myself like I can somehow hold myself together. + 

Then— + 

The tube slides out of Addy's throat, and for the briefest, most agonizing moment, her lips turn blue. + 

My stomach drops. + 

My hands fly to my mouth. + 

No. + 

Breathe, baby. Please, just breathe. + 

The nurses work quickly, inserting the nasal tube, adjusting the oxygen levels. + 

Seconds stretch into eternity. + 

Then— + 

Her chest rises. + 

Then again. + 

And again. + 

My entire body deflates with relief as the color slowly returns to her lips. I feel lightheaded, like I might collapse from the sheer force of my emotions. + 

The machines beep softly, steadily, filling the room with the only reassurance I need. + 

She's breathing. + 

She's still here. + 

I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding, pressing a trembling hand to my forehead. + 

One of the doctors, a woman with kind eyes, stays behind while the rest of the team filters out. She checks Addy's vitals, adjusting the monitors. + 

"She looks stable," she tells me, offering a small nod of encouragement. "If her lips start turning blue or purple again, press the call button immediately." + 

I nod, still too overwhelmed to form words. + 

She leaves, and suddenly, the room is quiet again. + 

Just me and Addy. + 

Like it's been for days. + 

I sink back into my chair, exhausted but unwilling to close my eyes. I reach for her hand, wrapping my fingers around hers. It's warm now. Stronger. + 

A lump forms in my throat as I trace small circles over the back of her hand with my thumb. + 

I've never prayed much, but if there's anything or anyone listening, I'm begging them now—please, let her be okay. + 

The door creaks open again. + 

I glance up. + 

Mom and Sadie walk in, their eyes scanning the room before settling on me. + 

Sadie clutches a bag in her hands, something wrapped in greasy paper. The smell hits me instantly, and my stomach twists in response. + 

Taco Bell. + 

I hadn't even realized how empty I felt—how hollow my body had become—until the scent of food reminded me. + 

Mom kneels beside me, placing a gentle hand on my knee. "Thought you could use something," she says softly. + 

I swallow hard, nodding. I don't trust my voice right now. + 

Sadie climbs onto the chair beside me, curling up close. She doesn't say anything, just watches Addy with tired, glassy eyes. + 

After everything, I feel a little more like myself again, but the guilt still lingers. It sits heavy on my chest, whispering all the ways I failed her. + 

I know, logically, that I couldn't have stopped this. That I didn't see the signs. + 

But knowing that doesn't make it easier. + 

I take slow bites of my food, my stomach unsure whether it can handle it. I fill Mom in on the night before—how Addy had moved her fingers, how she seemed more aware even though she kept her eyes closed. + 

"She's fighting," I say quietly. "She's really fighting." + 

Mom squeezes my hand. "She's strong, just like you." + 

I shake my head. "I don't feel strong." + 

"You are," she insists. "You're here. You're holding her together even when you feel like you're falling apart." + 

I swallow hard, glancing at Addy's sleeping form. + 

She still hasn't woken up fully. + 

And I wonder— + 

Can she hear me? + 

Can she hear me telling her to hold on? That I'm not leaving? + 

I need to find out. + 

I need her to know I'm here. + 

And I'm not going anywhere. + 