The first thing Inotice is the sound. A slow, steady rhythm. Too steady. Too precise.
Then comes the light, sharp and white behind my eyelids. I try to move and the world tilts, sluggish and wrong.
Someone’s talking. Two voices, close by. A man and a woman.
“Easy now,” one of them says—the man. “You’re in hospital. You’re safe. Don’t try to move too fast.”
Hospital.
The word drifts through the fog in my head, catching on something that feels like memory—noise, heat, dust—and then nothing.
I open my eyes, or try to. It takes more effort than it should. There’s a doctor leaning over me, a nurse beside him. They’re saying something about breathing tubes and recovery, but it’s hard to focus.
There’s something in my throat, something that shouldn’t be there. I gag, panic rising, but the nurse’s hand settles on my shoulder, steady and reassuring.
“It’s all right,” she says. “You’ve been intubated to help you breathe. We’ll remove it in a moment, once you’re properly awake.”
I blink, trying to make sense of the room—the blur of machines, the quiet hum. Then I see movement to my right.
Will. He’s standing near the door, dark circles under his eyes, giving me a look that’s half relief, half exhaustion.
And then my eyes shift, and I see her.
Eve.
She’s standing a little apart, pale, eyes wide, frozen like she’s afraid to breathe.
Something inside me stirs—not quite thought, not quite feeling—just a deep, unshakable pull.
I lift my hand. It takes more effort than I expect, but I manage it. I hold it out towards her.
For a heartbeat she doesn’t move. Finally, she steps forward, takes my hand, and everything in me unclenches.
I don’t hear what the doctor says next. All I can think about is the warmth of her fingers in mine.
Then his voice cuts through, gentle but firm. “All right, Aaron, we’re going to remove the tube now. It’ll be uncomfortable, but it’ll feel better once it’s out.”
I tighten my grip on her hand. She squeezes back, and the tension drains from me.
There’s movement all around me. The doctor’s voice comes and goes, instructions to the nurse, machines clicking softly, then the quiet rush of air as the breathing tube is removed, a sound that still doesn’t feel like breathing should.
Someone shines a light into my eyes. I flinch, and the doctor murmurs an apology. “Good,” he says. “Reaction’s normal. The swelling’s gone down. You gave us a scare for a while there, but it looks like you’re on the right track.”
I try to nod, though the effort makes everything tilt again.
Will steps closer once the doctor steps back. His voice is low and steady, but there’s strain underneath it. “You hit your head when the blast went off. They pulled you out after the second wave. You’ve been in a coma for nearly two weeks.”
Two weeks. It doesn’t sound real.
He goes on, short and factual, the way people do when they’ve already told the story too many times. The convoy, the hospital in Turkey, the flight home. I listen, but none of it feels like it belongs to me.
Eve hasn’t said a word. She’s beside me, her fingers wrapped around my hand so tightly it almost hurts—and I don’t want her to let go.
When Will finishes, there’s a long silence. The doctor glances at the chart, then looks at me. “You’re doing well, Aaron. Do you need anything? Water? More pain relief?”
I shake my head, then glance towards Eve. My voice comes out rough, still strange from the tube. “Can I… have a minute? Just us?”
The doctor gives a quick nod, professional but kind. “Of course. We’ll be right outside.”
