The room smelled still like antiseptic as I sat in the too-small hospital chair next to her bed, elbows on my knees, hands curled together like maybe if I prayed hard enough—loved her hard enough—she'd wake up.
There wasn't one flicker of those hazel eyes or a single whisper of her voice.
The only thing that let me know that she was alive was the slow, steady beep of the heart monitor beside her bed. A cruel rhythm that somehow felt louder at night, like the silence was begging me to listen harder, to hear her heartbeat when I couldn't hold her.
My hand slipped into hers and my jaw clenching at how cold it was. I rubbed my thumb over her knuckles, pretending the warmth would return if only I just kept holding on.
"I need you to wake up, baby," I whispered against the silence. "I'm going crazy over here without you."
Mylah didn't answer. She just laid there motionless under the thin white sheets, a line of bruises covered her collarbone and arms stood out against the white of the hospital gown.
The necklace I gave her still clung to her neck. It shimmered against her skin every time the light above her flickered. And every time I looked at it, it felt like it was mocking me. A reminder of the night I gave it to her. Before he hurt her and almost took her from me.
"She's stable," the doctor's voice echoed from the hall. "And I know this isn't what you want to hear but..."
My breath stilled, waiting.
"...she could wake up any day now."
The breath left me and I tightened my grip on her hand, grounding myself.
"Why hasn't she?" Her mom's voice cracked.
"She went into shock after losing so much blood. So her brain is protecting her, keeping her in a coma until she's strong enough to wake up." He explained. "I did want to inform you during our last scans, we found a heart murmur."
