Josslyn Jacks sat in the sterile hospital room, her fingers tracing the faded floral pattern on the bedsheet. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a clinical glow on her tear-streaked face. Hospitals held memories—some beautiful, others haunting—but this one was different. This time, it was Michael Corinthos who lay unconscious, fighting for his life.
She'd known Michael since childhood—the boy who'd become her confidant, her partner in mischief, and eventually, her rock. They'd weathered storms together—the mob wars, the betrayals, and the heartaches. But this? This was different. This was life and death.
Josslyn's mother, Carly, paced the hallway outside, her eyes red from crying. Michael was her half-brother, and the bond between them ran deep. Josslyn understood that. But she had her own connection with Michael—a shared history that defied bloodlines.
She remembered the first time they'd met in the hospital—the aftermath of Claudia Zacchara's reign of terror. Josslyn had been a child then, wide-eyed and scared. Michael had rescued her, cradling her in his arms as they escaped the cabin where Claudia had held them captive. His touch had felt like safety—a promise that they'd survive.
As teenagers, they'd faced more trials—illness, danger, and secrets. Josslyn's kidney cancer had threatened to steal her childhood, but Michael had been there, urging her to fight. Liz Webber's son, Jake, had died tragically, and Josslyn's survival had felt like redemption—a second chance at life.
Now, as she watched Michael's chest rise and fall, she wondered if he'd get that chance. The room smelled of antiseptic, and the heart monitor beeped rhythmically. Josslyn leaned closer, whispering words only he could hear.
"Michael," she said, her voice trembling. "You've always been the fighter. Don't you dare give up now."
His hand lay limp on the bed, the skin pale against the sterile sheets. Josslyn took it, willing her warmth into him. Memories flooded back—their laughter in the park, their late-night talks, and the way he'd held her when her world shattered.
Carly entered, her eyes swollen. "Joss, sweetheart..."
"He'll make it," Josslyn said, her voice fierce. "He has to."
Carly nodded, her fingers brushing Josslyn's hair. "We're family, you know. Blood or not."
Josslyn smiled through tears. "Yeah, we are."
Days blurred into nights—the hospital routine of beeping machines, whispered prayers, and waiting. Josslyn never left Michael's side. She talked to him about their childhood adventures, about the dreams they'd shared. She hoped he heard her—that somewhere in the depths of unconsciousness, he knew she was there.
And then, one morning, Michael's eyes fluttered open. His gaze found hers, and Josslyn's heart soared. He mouthed her name, and she squeezed his hand.
"You're back," she whispered.
He nodded weakly. "Couldn't leave you."
They sat in silence, the hospital room cocooning them. Josslyn knew they'd face more battles—the aftermath of Michael's injuries, the scars left behind. But they'd fight together, just like always.
As the sun peeked through the window, Josslyn leaned in, her lips brushing his forehead. "Welcome back, Michael."
And in that fragile moment, she realized that hospitals weren't just places of pain—they were also where resilience bloomed, where love defied odds, and where echoes of hope whispered through the walls.
