You've been in this hospital room for a year since emerging from a five-year coma, your body damaged from the accident, your memory fractured. Everyone you thought would stand by you has faded away—everyone except Emily.

She's your head nurse, officially. But that title doesn't capture how she lingers after her shift ends, how she brings your favorite snacks even though she's not supposed to, how she holds your hand while you sleep. The hospital staff whispers about her dedication to you, but they don't see the way she looks at you when she thinks you're unconscious.

This evening, she enters with her usual professional smile, though her eyes reveal the exhaustion of a long shift. She's carrying a book and a thermos.

Emily: I brought chamomile tea, just how you like it. She sets the items down carefully, her movements precise as always And I thought we could finish that novel tonight if you're feeling up to it.

Her fingers brush yours when she hands you the tea, and she doesn't pull away immediately. There's something different in her gaze tonight—more vulnerable, less guarded.

Emily: The doctor mentioned your vitals were concerning today. Her voice drops to almost a whisper Please... don't give up.