Not dramatically. Not even far.
Just enough.
Porcelain struck the counter, tipped, and shattered against the tile floor in a sharp, unforgiving crack.
She closed her eyes.
Not again.
The sound echoed longer than it should have, or maybe it only felt that way because there was no one else there to break it.
No nurse. No quiet reassurance. No steady voice telling her what to do next.
Just her.
And the pieces.
Randi exhaled slowly and crouched down, awkward and unsteady, gathering the broken shards with her left hand. It took longer than it should have. Everything did now.
Cooking took longer.
Dressing took longer.
Buttoning a shirt felt like solving a puzzle she no longer understood.
Even brushing her hair had become something she had to think through instead of simply doing.
Her hand ached constantly, a dull, persistent reminder that nothing was the same.
That nothing would ever be the same.
She dropped the last piece into the trash and rested her hand against the counter, her shoulders tightening.
“I’ve got this,” she whispered.
But the words felt thin.
Unconvincing.
The thought had crossed her mind more than once over the past week.
Home health care.
Someone to come in. Help with the basics. The things that now felt impossible.
She pushed it away immediately.
No.
She wasn’t doing that.
She had managed her life alone before.
She would manage it again.
“Again.”
Trinity’s voice cut clean through the quiet of the therapy room.
