Past

The days after Evana's failed attempt to walk were heavy. The hospital room, once a place of quiet determination, now felt suffocating. Evana's tears had dried, but the weight of her despair lingered in the air like a storm cloud. She barely spoke, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if searching for answers in the sterile white tiles. I sat beside her, my own thoughts a tangled mess of guilt and helplessness. I wanted to say something, anything, to make her feel better, but words felt hollow in the face of her pain.

The doctors had been clear: Evana's spinal injury was severe, and while there was always hope, the odds were not in her favor. But Evana wasn't one to give up easily. She had always been the kind of person who fought for what she wanted, no matter how impossible it seemed. And yet, for the first time, I saw doubt creeping into her eyes—doubt that maybe, just maybe, this was a battle she couldn't win.

One afternoon, as the sun streamed through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room, Evana finally broke the silence.

"Benji," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I want to go back to school."

I blinked, caught off guard by her request. "Are you sure?" I asked. "I mean, it's only been a few weeks. Maybe you should give yourself more time to—"

"I'm tired of waiting," she interrupted, her voice firm. "I'm tired of lying here, feeling like my life is on hold. I need to do something, even if it's just sitting in a classroom. I need to feel… normal again."

I nodded, understanding her need to reclaim some semblance of her old life. "Okay," I said. "If that's what you want, we'll make it happen."

The next day, with the help of her parents and the school administration, Evana returned to school. I pushed her wheelchair through the hallways, the stares and whispers of our classmates following us like a shadow. But Evana held her head high, her chin lifted in defiance. She was determined to prove that she was more than her injury, more than the wheelchair that now defined her to so many.

The first few days were rough. The school had made accommodations for her, but the physical toll of navigating the building was exhausting. Between classes, I would meet her at the designated spots to help her move from one room to another. Her determination was inspiring, but I could see the strain it was putting on her. Her hands, gripping the wheels of her chair, were raw and blistered, and her face often bore the marks of fatigue.

One day, after a particularly grueling session of physical therapy, Evana looked up at me, her eyes filled with a mix of frustration and determination. "I hate this," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I hate feeling so… helpless."

I knelt beside her, taking her hands in mine. "You're not helpless," I said firmly. "You're the strongest person I know. This is just… a detour. You'll find your way back."

She smiled faintly, but I could see the doubt in her eyes. "What if I don't, Benji? What if this is it? What if I'm stuck like this forever?"

I didn't have an answer for her. The truth was, I didn't know what the future held. But I couldn't let her see my fear. "Then we'll figure it out," I said. "Together. You're not alone in this, Evana. You never will be."

The days passed in a blur of classes, therapy sessions, and quiet moments of reflection. Evana's determination never wavered, but I could see the toll it was taking on her. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally, and I worried that she was pushing herself too hard. But every time I tried to suggest she take a break, she would shake her head and say, "I can't stop, Benji. If I stop, I'll never start again."

One afternoon, as we left school together, I pushed her wheelchair down the familiar path toward her house. The sun was warm on our faces, and the air was filled with the sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling in the breeze. It was a rare moment of peace, and for a while, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

We were halfway home when I saw him.

At first, I thought I was imagining things. It had been years since I'd last seen him, and the man standing on the corner looked different—older, more worn—but there was no mistaking those eyes. They were the same eyes I saw every time I looked in the mirror.

My father.