The hallway light was blinding.
I hit the tiles hard. My left heel skidded free, snapping loose as I staggered backward, clawing for balance that wasn't there. Momentum took over.
I tumbled down the stairs.
Crack.
My shoulder slammed into the edge. Then my spine. Then my head struck the railing with a dull, sickening thud. Pain didn't arrive—it detonated.
"Ah—!"
The scream tore out of me as the world started spinning. Footsteps answered it. A door opened above. "Are you okay?" a man called out. Another door. Another voice. "What happened?"
I tried to speak, but my breath wouldn't come. Someone hurried down the stairs. A hand touched my arm—careful, unsure. "Don't move too fast," a woman said. "Can you sit up?"
With their help, I managed to sit, then slowly, to stand. My legs shook; someone steadied my elbow. My head swam. My shoulder burned. Something warm slid along my temple.
Behind us, that apartment door stayed shut. I looked up; it was the door to my home, tightly closed.
Someone asked, "Do you want us to help you call someone?" I swallowed, my throat dry. "Thank you, but no," I said hoarsely. "I'll call my family."
They helped me down the steps, one by one. Every movement sent pain through my body—my shoulder, my back, my head—until it all blurred into one steady ache.
Outside, they guided me to the curb. The night air was biting against my skin. My hands shook. My whole body hurt.
The building stood behind me, lit and silent. I sat there, supported by strangers. My mind was a chaotic mess; I couldn't think at all, and I had no idea why any of this was happening.
I just understood—with a dull, aching clarity— That whatever I had just lost was not coming back for me.