Her eyelids flutter, lifting just enough to reveal the faintest line of green before falling again, heavy with exhaustion.
Fucking hell.
She moved.
She tried to open her eyes.
The swelling has gone down. The doctors told me last night. Her brain is healing, and she doesn’t require surgery.
I don’t look away from her, even for a second.
I won’t miss the moment her eyes open.
I refuse to.
After her father left, no one disturbed us.
No one knows, except him and me.
Selfish?
Yes.
Probably.
Maybe.
Who the hell knows.
I don’t give a shit.
She has always protected her sister, always shielded her, taking the weight onto her own shoulders. I know she wouldn’t want her sister, or her mother, worrying, especially not with the attacks still hanging over us, so I stay quiet, or at least that is the excuse I give myself for not telling them.
Maybe I simply don’t need them here, crying and sniffing, asking questions I can’t answer.
What can they do, after all.
Nothing.
And I need her to myself.
If she wants her sister, she will wake up and ask, and I will give her whatever she wants. There is nothing I would refuse her.
Her fingers tighten again, just a fraction more than before. Her other hand trembles, in a small… uncontrolled movement, and her head shifts as if she’s forcing her way back into her body.
“I’m right here.”I murmur.
She has been sedated for days, and the doctors warned me that waking would not be quick. It would come in minutes at first, then longer stretches.
I watch her lips part slightly, her breath catching.
The door opens.
I look up, already irritated at the intrusion, at anything that dares pull me away from this moment.
A man in a white coat steps inside.
“Good evening,” he says. “I’m Dr. Whitaker. I’m here to check on—” He looks down at the paper in his hand. “Octavia Bellanti.”
