Strength

The days blurred together in the hospital, each one a strange mix of hope and despair. Evana's room became a second home, the sterile white walls and the faint scent of antiseptic a constant reminder of the fragility of life. I spent hours by her side, reading to her, talking about anything and everything, or simply sitting in silence, holding her hand. The world outside felt distant, like it no longer mattered. All that mattered was her.

But as the days turned into weeks, the weight of the silence grew heavier. Evana's progress was slow, almost imperceptible. The doctors spoke in cautious tones, their words measured and clinical. They talked about "small victories" and "adjusting expectations," but their eyes told a different story—one of uncertainty and doubt.

Evana, for her part, tried to stay strong. She smiled when she could, laughed at my terrible jokes, and even managed to tease me about my messy hair. But there were moments, fleeting and raw, when her mask slipped, and I saw the fear and frustration she was trying so hard to hide. It was in the way her hands clenched the sheets when she thought no one was looking, or the way her voice wavered when she talked about the future—a future that now felt uncertain and out of reach.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, Evana broke the silence.

"Benji," she said, her voice soft but steady. "What if this is it? What if I never walk again?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. I had asked myself the same thing countless times, but hearing her say it out loud made it real in a way I wasn't prepared for.

I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "I don't know," I admitted. "But I do know that you're still you. Walking or not, you're still Evana. You're still the strongest person I know."

She looked at me, her eyes searching mine for something—reassurance, maybe, or just the truth. "But what if I'm not?" she whispered. "What if I'm not strong enough for this?"

I reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. "You don't have to be strong all the time," I said. "It's okay to be scared. It's okay to feel like this is too much. But you're not alone, Evana. You've got me, your family, your friends. We're all here for you."

She nodded, but I could see the doubt in her eyes. "I just… I don't want to be a burden," she said, her voice breaking. "I don't want people to look at me and see… this."

Her words cut through me, a reminder of how much she was struggling, not just with her body but with her sense of self. "You're not a burden," I said firmly. "You're never a burden. You're Evana. And no matter what happens, that's never going to change."

She didn't respond, but I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. I pulled her into a gentle hug, careful not to disturb the tubes and wires that seemed to tether her to the bed. She clung to me, her body trembling as she finally let herself cry.

In that moment, I felt the full weight of her pain, her fear, her frustration. It was a heavy burden, one that I wished I could carry for her. But all I could do was be there, to hold her and remind her that she wasn't alone.

When she finally pulled away, her face was streaked with tears, but there was a faint glimmer of something in her eyes—resilience, maybe, or just the faintest spark of hope.

"Thank you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "For being here. For… everything."

I smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Always," I said. "No matter what."

As the days passed, I began to notice small changes in Evana. She started to open up more, to talk about her fears and frustrations instead of bottling them up. She even began to joke about her situation, finding humor in the absurdity of it all. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

One afternoon, as we sat by the window watching the world outside, Evana turned to me with a determined look in her eyes.

"I want to try," she said. "I want to try to walk again."

I blinked, surprised by the sudden declaration. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, the doctors said it might take time, and—"

"I know what the doctors said," she interrupted, her voice firm. "But I can't just sit here and wait for something to happen. I need to try. Even if it's just a little bit. Even if I fail."

I could see the determination in her eyes, the fire that had always made her so unstoppable. And in that moment, I knew that no matter what happened, she would be okay. Because she was Evana, and she was stronger than anyone I knew.

"Okay," I said, nodding. "Let's do it. Let's try."

The next day, with the help of her physical therapist, Evana tried to take her first steps since the accident. But her efforts seemed useless. She couldn't even move her feet out of the bed, let alone walk. The chances of her walking were always leaning towards negative.

I stood by her side, my heart pounding, unable to utter the right words.

Evana was on the bed, crying and i was just standing beside her, silent, devoured by my own thoughts.