“Mr. Seaborn, I’m Dr. Carl Royce.” His voice is deliberate, exactly what you’d expect from a man who’s been carrying other people’s bad news for decades. “How are you doing today?”
I tilt my head toward him automatically. “How do you think I’m feeling?” The words scrape my throat on their way out. “I’m stuck in a fucking nightmare I can’t wake up from.”
“Understandable,” he says, his words too measured. But he has no idea how I feel right now. No one does. “We’re doing everything we can to help you recover, Teddy,” Dr. Royce continues. “We’re hopeful your sight will return to some extent.”
Hopeful.The word dangles between us, seven letters useless in the present moment. My breath falters, catching shallow in my lungs. I grip the sheet to keep my hand from shaking.
“So you’re telling me this could be temporary?” The question comes out sharp, but underneath it’s threaded with disbelief.
The chair scrapes as he sits, lowering his tone. “We’re doing our best to manage the blood inside your eyes, and with time, itmay clear. But your body might react to the treatment differently, so I won’t promise a full recovery at this stage. We’ll continue running tests and monitoring your condition closely. The next few weeks will tell us more.”
The next fewweeks. That’s what this is, a waiting game.
“What if it doesn’t return?” My voice cracks again. “What happens then?”
“If you continue having issues with your vision, we’ll consider further surgery. We’re not there yet. Your stability is our primary focus. We have time before decisions need to be made.”
Stability.Stable. That fucking word again. My hand balls into a fist until my knuckles ache. Stable means alive, not whole.I’m simply existing without a promise I’ll skate again. Or see a puck hurtling toward me or the red goal light flashing or the chaos of a bench after a tight win. More images fire through my head; a collection of games that defined me. These are the moments I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
“I get it.” My voice hardens, flattening into resolve. I won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me break. “So what do we do now? What’s the plan?”
“Nurse Campbell has been working closely with your treatment plan. She’ll be your main point of contact moving forward. I’ll leave you two to discuss the next steps.”
At least there’s something positive. I like Ivy. She had enough balls to tell my parents to fuck off. I have a feeling we’ll be good friends before my time here is over.
“Thanks, Doc.”
The door shuts behind Dr. Royce, and the silence tries to swallow me whole again. My hand is still in a fist, nails digging crescents into my palm.
The jagged words rip out before I can stop them. “How the hell am I supposed to keep living when everything is unclear?”
Ivy’s voice, steady in a way I’m not, answers. “I can’t give you the answer. But no matter what, we’ll get through this together.”We.Notyou.Just like she said yesterday.
A shaky breath escapes me. I turn toward her, searching even though I won’t catch her outline. I just want something—anything—besides her voice to prove she’s here with me.
“Together,” I repeat in a whisper, hoping she’s right.
The warmth of her hand covers mine, her grip firm but not crushing. It’s exactly what I was desperate for a moment ago, a solid reminder she’s here.
“I’m going to stay a few minutes,” Ivy says. “Your meds aren’t due for a while, but I think you could do with some company.”
I swallow hard. My throat still feels raw, scraped out from panic. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“I’m not.” She lets out a huff. “Sure, it’s my responsibility to look after you. But it’s my choice to be here now.”
A corner of my mouth lifts, the closest thing to a smile I’ve managed all day. “Guess that makes you my favorite nurse. Don’t tell the others. They’ll fight you for the title.”
“Luckily I know how to fight back.”
Her following laugh pushes the heaviness aside. It’s a sound I want to carry with me, even into my dreams.
“If I knew you looked run over by a Zamboni, I would’ve visited yesterday,” a soft, familiar voice calls from the doorway later that day.
I face one of my closest friends and let out an overly dramatic tsk. “Such bad bedside manners, Emerson Grace Merryweather. I’m disappointed.”
“Oh, stop it, you silly boy.”
“Good to see you, too,” I reply out of habit, then catch myself with a shaky laugh. “Well, shit. Can I even say that anymore?”
