I must have fallen asleep without realizing it.
The kind of sleep that doesn't ask permission—one moment I was resting, the next I was gone.
It was deep. Heavier than a nap. Softer than rest.
I felt it before I saw anything.
Warmth.
A closeness that didn't startle me, didn't demand attention—just existed, as if it had always known where to be. I sensed someone leaning over me, slow and careful, as though afraid to disturb something fragile.
Lips brushed my forehead.
Not hurried.Not uncertain.
The touch lingered, unhurried, drifting downward in a way that made my breath forget itself. I didn't open my eyes. I didn't need to. Every part of me understood the feeling without explanation.
It felt unreal—and yet more real than anything I had known while awake.
I wasn't afraid.I wasn't questioning.
I felt light, unburdened, as if I had stepped into a place where nothing was expected of me. Somewhere gentle. Somewhere I belonged.
Just before that warmth could reach my lips—
A sound cut through.
Sharp. Sudden.
I inhaled, my eyes flying open.
The room came back too quickly. The ceiling. The walls. The familiar weight of my body against the bed. My heart raced as if I had been pulled out of something sacred without warning.
For a few seconds, I didn't recognize where I was.
It felt like waking into the wrong world.
Home did not feel unfamiliar.
It felt watched.
Not in the way people watched—curious or judgmental—but in the way walls remembered things. As if the house had taken note of my absence and was still deciding how to receive me now that I had returned.
My aunt unlocked the door and stepped aside, letting me enter first. My uncle followed behind us, placing my bag near the table without a word.
"Sit," my aunt said, pointing toward the chair near the window. "Don't stand too long."
I did as she asked.
She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of warm water, placing it in my hands carefully, like something fragile.
"Drink," she said. "Slowly."
Her voice wasn't sharp. It wasn't gentle either. It was measured—care disguised as instruction.
I drank.
From the hallway, small footsteps hurried toward me.
My aunt's daughter appeared, her eyes widening the moment she saw me. She didn't hesitate. She ran forward and wrapped her arms around my waist, holding on tightly, her cheek pressed against me.
"You're back," she said, as if she had been waiting for proof.
"I am," I replied softly, resting my hand on her head.
She pulled away just enough to look at my face, studying it carefully, like she was checking for cracks.
"Does it still hurt?" she asked.
"Not much," I said.
She seemed satisfied with that answer and climbed onto the chair beside me, leaning against my arm. She stayed there, quiet and warm, her presence grounding in a way words never had been.
My aunt watched us from the doorway.
She said nothing.
The rest of the evening moved slowly. I was told when to eat, when to rest, when to stop moving. No one raised their voice. No one accused me of anything.
It felt strange—this attention.
Later, as I lay on my bed, staring at the familiar ceiling, I realized how different the silence felt.
In the hospital, silence had been filled with machines—proof that someone was always nearby.
Here, it felt empty.
That night, sleep came unevenly.
I dreamed of nothing specific. No faces. No voices. Just the sensation of being held in place while everything else slipped away.
I woke before the dream could finish.
Morning arrived without ceremony.
I sat by the window, watching the street below. The same road where people passed every day without looking up. The same place where my life had almost slipped unnoticed.
Breakfast was quieter than usual.
My aunt placed food on my plate herself.
"Finish it," she said, but her voice lacked its old edge.
I nodded and did as I was told.
The little girl sat across from me, swinging her legs. She watched me closely, as if making sure I wouldn't disappear again.
"You're staying today," she said firmly.
"Yes," my aunt replied. "She's not going anywhere."
The words settled heavily in the room.
Later, as the house emptied for the day, I heard my aunt speaking on the phone in the kitchen.
"Yes… she's fine now," she said quietly. "Weak, but fine."
A pause.
"No, her son came home late last night," she continued. "Left early this morning."
Another pause.
"I know."
The call ended.
I sat still, my fingers curling slightly into the fabric of my sleeve.
I didn't ask questions.
That afternoon, I stepped into the veranda for the first time since returning. The air felt familiar there—open, honest. I sat down slowly, closing my eyes.
For a moment, I almost expected it.
That same calm.That same sense of being watched over.
Nothing came.
And yet, the absence felt louder than silence.
In the evening, my boyfriend came by.
He stood at the doorway for a moment before stepping inside, smiling the way he always did when he thought he was doing the right thing. He asked how I felt, reminded me to take care, told me how worried everyone had been.
He stayed longer than usual.
I listened. I nodded. I smiled when I needed to.
He reached for my hand.
I let him.
His touch was warm. Familiar. Safe.
And still, something inside me remained untouched.
When he left, the house settled back into its quiet rhythm.
That night, as I lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, I thought about all the people who had been around me these past days.
Those who stayed because they had to.Those who stayed because it was expected.
And the one who stayed… without reason.
I turned onto my side, pulling the blanket closer.
I didn't know his name.I didn't know his face.
But I knew this now:
Whatever had held me together that night hadn't disappeared.
It was simply waiting—somewhere just beyond my understanding.
And without realizing it, so was I.