Hold On I Still Need You

-Slow Recovery-

Edaline's POV:

The steady beeping of the machines is the first thing I hear as I sit by Sophie's side, my fingers gently wrapped around hers. The sound has become a strange comfort, a rhythm that somehow assures me she's still here, still fighting. Grady sits beside me, equally quiet, his eyes never leaving our daughter.

The doctors are cautiously optimistic, though they warn us it's too soon to know what her recovery will truly look like. But I can see it—the subtle changes in her breathing, the flicker of her eyelids, the way she responds, even if just a little, to our touch.

Sophie's eyes flutter open, and for a moment, she looks lost, confused. I hold my breath, praying she'll recognize me. Then, slowly, her gaze clears, and a small, exhausted smile tugs at her lips. The relief that washes over me is overwhelming. I squeeze her hand, knowing that while the path ahead is uncertain, she's still here—and that's all that matters right now.

The first few days after Sophie woke up were some of the hardest. She was awake, yes, but still so fragile—too weak to do more than lie in bed, her body stiff and unresponsive to even the simplest of movements. I watch her struggle with every little thing, and it breaks me, even though I know it's all part of the process. The treatments, the toll they've taken on her body, make everything feel like a monumental effort for her.

Grady and I never leave her side. We take turns holding her hand, whispering encouragement, and gently reminding her of how strong she is. We don't say it out loud, but we both know how hard this is on her. On us, too. But we can't show her our fears—we can't show her the worry that's eating away at us, or the exhaustion that's starting to seep into our bones.

Elwin and Alden, her doctors, are always present, adjusting her treatments, tweaking her medications in an effort to help Sophie regain some of her strength. Every small change is a victory, though I can see the frustration building in Sophie's eyes. She's not the type to sit still and let things come to her; she wants to push through it all, to move faster than her body will allow.

And yet, even with the slow progress, she's determined. Each day, she manages to sit up for a little longer. Her voice, though weak, starts to sound more like herself as she speaks a bit more. I can see her fighting, and it fills me with both pride and sorrow. She's pushing through the pain and the exhaustion, trying to hold onto hope, trying to believe that this will all be worth it in the end.

There are moments when the weight of it all overwhelms her. The road feels endless, the days dragging by with no clear end in sight. She'll look at me, and for a second, I can see the doubt in her eyes. But then she pushes it away, refusing to let herself give in. She's fighting, and so am I.

Physically, Sophie's body is slowly recovering, but her emotions remain fragile, a weight she can't seem to shake off. The trauma she's endured—the months of uncertainty, the constant fear of death, the brutal pain of treatment—has left scars on her heart that I can see, even when she tries to hide them. She's growing stronger in body, but emotionally, she's spent. And I can feel it every time I look at her.

There are moments when she withdraws, her eyes distant, as if she's lost somewhere deep inside herself. I know she's grappling with the changes to her body—the lingering weakness, the physical limitations—and the fear that she might never be the same. She's terrified of what all of this means for who she was before. I can see it in the way she hesitates, the way she touches her own arms, as though she's not sure if she recognizes the person in the mirror.

She feels isolated, as if no one around her can truly understand what she's going through. The weight of those feelings presses down on her, and I can see her fighting to put it into words, to let us in. But sometimes, it's too much. Sometimes, she pulls away, not wanting to burden us, even though she doesn't realize we already feel it, too.