Sometime after midnight, the nurse guided Yuna out of bed.
I stood instantly.
“Relax,” she whispered. “Bathroom.”
Yuna moved slowly, half asleep, leaning slightly against the nurse’s arm.
Her eyes were open but unfocused.
“She doesn’t even know I’m here,” I said quietly.
The nurse shook her head.
“She’ll remember you later.”
Yuna paused in the doorway, blinking like she was somewhere between dreams and waking.
Then she disappeared into the bathroom.
I exhaled slowly.
A few minutes later, the nurse walked her back to bed.
She collapsed into the pillows like gravity had doubled.
“See,” the nurse said softly. “She needs rest.”
I didn’t answer.
I just watched her again.
Morning came.
Then afternoon.
Twenty-four hours of sleep broken by small moments of movement.
Water.
Bathroom.
Medicine.
Vitals.
Her breathing got stronger.
Her color improved slightly.
Finally, the doctor returned.
He checked her chart, examined the IV line, and nodded.
“She is stable now.”
I leaned back in the chair.
“Define stable.”
