The morning didn't wait for me to be ready.
It arrived the way it always did—quiet, functional, indifferent.
I woke before anyone spoke to me. Washed my face. Let my hair dry without paying attention to it. I ate what was placed in front of me, finishing everything without comment.
The house moved around me smoothly, like a system that had corrected itself after a brief disruption.
My aunt spoke only when something required instruction.
"Take the medicine.""Eat properly.""Rest if you feel tired."
No warmth.No irritation.
Just order.
I helped around the house without being asked.
Not out of enthusiasm. Not out of gratitude. Simply because I understood the rules of the space I occupied.
I washed the dishes before they stacked. Wiped the counter when crumbs appeared. Folded clothes quietly and returned them to their places. Staying useful meant staying unquestioned.
My aunt noticed.
She paused once, watching me rinse a plate.
"Leave it," she said.
I dried my hands and stepped aside.
She took my place without another word.
When I stepped outside later, the air felt sharper than I remembered. Sounds arrived too quickly, overlapping until my body slowed instinctively, adjusting itself without my permission.
At college, everything looked unchanged.
The same corridors.The same benches.The same familiar noise of lives moving forward.
People noticed me just enough to remind me I had been gone.
"You're better now?""Scared everyone.""Take care this time."
I smiled. I nodded. I moved on.
My attention slipped anyway.
I lost track of lectures halfway through sentences. The room felt too close, then suddenly too open. I found myself pressing my feet flat against the floor, grounding myself in the present.
My boyfriend found me near the library.
Relief crossed his face when he saw me. He stepped closer immediately, his hand settling at my waist, confident and certain—like it belonged there.
"I missed you," he said. "I was really worried."
"I know," I replied.
We walked together for a while before he stopped near the old steps behind the building—the place people like us were expected to pause.
He turned fully toward me this time.
"You scared me," he said again, quieter now. "I kept thinking what if something had gone wrong and I hadn't been there."
His hand rose to my face. His thumb brushed my cheek.
Then he leaned in and kissed me.
It wasn't rushed.It wasn't awkward.
But it was heavy.
Not with desire—with expectation.
His lips lingered, searching gently, waiting for my body to respond the way it was supposed to. I stayed still, my hands hanging uselessly at my sides.
I didn't pull away.
I didn't move closer either.
The moment stretched too long before he noticed.
He pulled back slightly, smiling, brushing my hair aside as if nothing had happened.
"See?" he said softly. "Everything's okay."
I nodded.
But something had already shifted.
As we walked away, a bicycle passed us, the sound of its wheels cutting briefly through the air.
My body reacted before thought.
My breath stalled. My fingers curled sharply at my side. A sudden awareness passed through me—not fear, not panic.
Recognition.
It vanished just as quickly, leaving behind a quiet ache.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
The word felt thinner than before.
When I returned home, my aunt stood near the window, looking outside.
"You're late," she said.
"Not too late," I replied.
She glanced at me once, then turned back to what she was doing.
No concern.No accusation.
I washed my hands. Put my bag away. Straightened the chair near the table without thinking.
That evening passed without conversation.
Later, lying on my bed, I replayed the kiss—not with embarrassment, not with regret, but with confusion.
There had been nothing wrong with it.
And yet, it hadn't stayed with me.
What stayed instead was something else entirely.
The memory of warmth without effort.Closeness without demand.A touch that hadn't asked me to become anything in return.
Sleep came slowly.
When it did, it brought no dreams.
I woke once in the night to the sound of the ceiling fan clicking faintly as it turned. My hand rested unconsciously against my forehead, as if searching for something that wasn't there.
The room was quiet. Empty.
I sat up briefly, my heart beating faster for reasons I couldn't explain, then lay back down again.
For the first time since the accident, the truth settled clearly in my chest.
It wasn't the fall that had changed me.
It was the moment something had felt right—without explanation, without permission.
And now, everything else felt like an imitation of normal.
I turned onto my side, pulling the blanket closer.
Outside, the house remained still.
Inside, something had already begun to move.