Pearl learned quickly that recovery was not a straight line.
It was more like a hesitant sketch—lines drawn, erased, redrawn again, never quite matching the image she carried in her head of how things were supposed to go.
Her first real setback came the morning they tried to help her sit up.
It sounded simple when the nurse explained it. "We'll raise the bed, swing your legs over slowly, and see how you feel. No pressure. Just listening to your body."
Pearl nodded, determined. She didn't want to be difficult. She didn't want to be fragile.
Jackson stood close, one hand hovering near her shoulder like a promise he wasn't going to break.
"Ready?" the nurse asked.
"Yes," Pearl said, even though a small, quiet part of her wasn't sure.
The bed shifted. Gravity changed its mind.
The moment her legs moved, the world tilted sharply to the left. A wave of dizziness slammed into her, sudden and overwhelming. Her vision blurred, edges smearing, and nausea rose fast and unforgiving.
"I—" she tried to say, but the word dissolved.
"Okay, stop," the nurse said immediately. "We're stopping."
Jackson was there instantly, steadying her shoulders as they eased her back down. Pearl's heart pounded wildly, her breaths shallow and uneven.
"I can't—" she whispered, shame flooding in faster than the dizziness.
"It's okay," Jackson said firmly. "It's okay."
But it didn't feel okay.
Tears pricked her eyes, hot and humiliating. She turned her face away, staring at the wall so no one would see.
"I thought I could," she said, voice trembling. "It felt so easy in my head."
The nurse adjusted the bed, her tone calm and practiced. "This doesn't mean anything bad. Your body's been through a lot. We'll try again later."
Later.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
When the nurse left, the room felt too quiet. Pearl wiped at her eyes angrily, frustrated with herself more than anything else.
"I hate this," she muttered.
Jackson didn't rush to fix it. He didn't offer empty reassurance. He just pulled his chair closer and sat.
"I know," he said.
"That's it?" she snapped weakly. "You know?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Because I watched you wake up and try to pretend none of this scared you. And because I know how much you hate needing help."
She laughed bitterly. "I feel useless."
"You're not," he said again, softer this time. "But you are healing. Those aren't the same thing."
She closed her eyes, breathing carefully. "It feels like everyone's waiting for me to catch up."
"No," he said. "We're walking at your speed now."
She looked at him then, really looked. "You didn't sound like that before."
"Before when?"
"Before all this," she said. "You were always rushing. Planning. Moving."
He smiled faintly. "Turns out waiting changes a person."
That afternoon, the physical therapist arrived—a woman with kind eyes and a voice that carried both authority and patience.
"We're not doing anything dramatic today," she said cheerfully. "Just testing what your body remembers."
Pearl wasn't sure how she felt about that phrasing.
The exercises were small. Tiny, even. Lifting one foot an inch. Flexing her fingers. Turning her head slowly from side to side.
And yet, by the end of it, she was exhausted.
"I used to run," Pearl said quietly as the therapist packed up. "I ran everywhere."
The therapist smiled. "Then you'll walk again. One step at a time."
When the room was quiet once more, Pearl stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of that promise.
"What if I can't?" she asked suddenly.
Jackson looked up from his phone. "Can't what?"
"Get back to who I was," she said. "What if that version of me stayed… wherever I went?"
Jackson thought about it carefully. "Then maybe that version made room for something else."
She frowned. "That's not comforting."
He smiled gently. "It's honest."
That evening, exhaustion hit her harder than before. Her limbs felt heavy, her thoughts sluggish. When Jackson helped her sip water, she barely had the strength to hold the cup.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I feel like I keep fading out."
"Your body's working overtime," he said. "That costs energy."
She hesitated. "Will you still be here when I wake up?"
The question was quiet. Vulnerable.
"Yes," he answered without hesitation.
"Promise?"
He met her eyes. "Always."
Sleep claimed her quickly after that.
But this time, it wasn't peaceful.
Her dreams came sharp and disjointed—flashes of motion, the echo of fear without context, the sensation of falling without impact. She stirred restlessly, brow furrowed, breath uneven.
Jackson noticed immediately.
"Hey," he murmured, standing and resting a hand lightly on her arm. "Pearl. You're safe."
Her eyes flew open, wild for half a second before focusing on him.
"I couldn't move," she gasped. "I was trying to run and my legs—"
"You're here," he said, steady and calm. "It was a dream."
She nodded, swallowing hard. "They feel so real."
"They will for a while," he said. "Your mind's catching up."
She pressed her lips together, then said quietly, "Stay until I fall asleep again."
"I'm not going anywhere," he replied, sitting back down.
She watched him as her breathing slowed, grounding herself in the sight of him, the familiar lines of his face, the steadiness of his presence.
The next day brought a small victory.
Pearl sat up.
Only for thirty seconds. With help. With the room spinning and her heart racing—but she did it.
When she lay back down, breathless and shaking, Jackson laughed softly.
"You did it."
She smiled, weak but proud. "I did."
"See?" he said. "Progress isn't loud."
Jonathan came by later and found her half-asleep, flushed but smiling.
"She looks… better," he said quietly to Jackson.
"She is," Jackson replied. "Even when it doesn't look like it."
Pearl opened one eye. "I heard that."
Jonathan grinned. "Good. Means you're still bossy."
She chuckled, then winced. "Worth it."
As night fell again, Pearl felt something unfamiliar settle into her chest—not fear, not frustration, but resolve.
Recovery was slow.
It was painful.
It was humbling.
But it was happening.
And she wasn't alone.
Jackson sat beside her, reading quietly, his presence as constant as the hum of the machines.
Waiting had once meant uncertainty.
Now it meant effort.
And effort, she was learning, was its own kind of hope...