I woke up slowly.
Not all at once—just enough to know I wasn't where I should be.
Light pressed against my eyelids, too bright, too clean. My head felt heavy, my body distant, as if I were floating somewhere just above myself. Sounds reached me in fragments—voices overlapping, footsteps, the steady rhythm of something beeping nearby.
I tried to move.
A dull ache spread through my arm. My legs felt weak, uncooperative.
Panic rose quickly, sharp and disorienting.
I forced my eyes open.
White walls. Pale curtains. The faint scent of antiseptic.
A hospital.
Memory returned in broken flashes—the dark road, the sudden fall, the ground rushing toward me. My breath caught as I tried to hold onto the pieces, but they slipped through me like water. Everything remained blurred, like a dream refusing to settle.
People moved around the bed, their shapes soft and indistinct. Someone adjusted something near my arm. Another voice spoke gently, telling me to stay calm.
And then I felt it.
Hands on my face.
Warm. Careful. Familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
Through the haze, I sensed someone close—moving quickly, anxiously. A presence that felt different from the others. Protective. Urgent. As if my being there mattered deeply.
My vision swam, but I felt lips press softly against my forehead.
Not rushed.Not unsure.
Just… full of care.
The kind of touch that didn't ask permission because it didn't need to.
It felt like love.
The kind I had known only once before—when my mother used to smooth my hair when I was sick, whispering that everything would be okay even when she didn't believe it herself.
I tried to speak. To ask who it was.
The world slipped away instead.
A needle pierced my skin gently. Someone said my name. The room faded, sounds dissolving into silence.
When I woke again, the light was softer.
My head throbbed faintly, but the panic was gone. I became aware of the weight of a blanket, the steady drip beside me. My body still felt weak, but this time, real.
I turned my head slowly.
My aunt and uncle sat beside the bed.
My aunt's face looked tight, drawn in a way I had never seen before. My uncle stared at the floor, his hands clasped together, restless.
"You're awake," my aunt said quickly, standing up. Relief crossed her face—but it was mixed with something else. Worry, yes. But also disruption. Concern not just for me, but for what had gone wrong.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You fainted after an accident," she replied. "You're lucky it wasn't worse."
Lucky.
The doctor came in soon after. He spoke calmly, explaining that I had a few minor injuries, nothing serious. But I was dehydrated. Weak. My body had simply given up when it couldn't keep going anymore.
"You haven't been eating properly," he said—not accusing, just stating a fact. "We'll keep you here for observation. A few days."
Three days.
I nodded, too tired to respond.
Later that afternoon, the room filled with noise.
Laughter first. Then familiar voices.
My boyfriend stepped in, surrounded by a few friends from class. He smiled the moment he saw me, relief clear on his face. Someone cracked a joke. Someone else scolded me gently for worrying them.
He sat beside my bed and took my hand.
"You scared everyone," he said softly. "But you'll be fine. We're here."
I smiled back. I tried to match his warmth, his concern.
And yet—
Something inside me remained unsettled.
Because his touch, though kind, felt different.
It didn't quiet me the way the other one had.
That moment on the road—the blurred face, the urgency in the hands that held me, the kiss on my forehead—it replayed itself again and again. I searched the room without meaning to, half-expecting to feel that presence return.
But it didn't.
By evening, my aunt and uncle came back, asking questions about discharge dates, about missed classes, about how long this would take. Their concern sounded practical. Measured.
Necessary.
As night settled in, the ward grew quiet again.
The lights dimmed. Machines hummed softly. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm that reminded me I was still here.
They said a stranger had brought me in.
Someone who didn't stay.
But my body remembered more than that word allowed.
The careful way my face had been held.The warmth that had steadied me when I was slipping away.
I shifted slightly and noticed something near the edge of the sheet.
A faint trace of dirt.
Too dark to be mine.Too close to be nothing.
My breath caught.
No one mentioned it. No one seemed to notice. The room remained calm, ordinary, as if nothing unusual had ever happened.
But I knew.
Someone had been there when I was breaking.Someone had held me when I couldn't hold myself.
And they had left before I could see them.