Hold On I Still Need You

-Hope Restored-

Sophie's POV:

I wake up feeling more rested than I have in days, the fog in my mind clearing a little. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the hospital machines. The rhythmic sound is almost comforting, a reminder that I'm still here, still fighting.

I turn my head slightly, and there they are—Grady and Edaline, sitting by my side. Their faces are tired, but there's something else there now—something I haven't seen in a while. A flicker of hope, cautious but present. They've been with me through every dark moment, and today, I can see it in their eyes—they believe again.

For the first time in weeks, I feel stronger, like the weight of everything has lifted just enough for me to breathe. The emotional toll has been heavy, but today feels different. There's a small, unexpected spark of hope inside me. Maybe things aren't as bleak as they once seemed. Maybe this is the start of something better.

Every day feels like a small victory now, like I'm inching my way back to myself, one step at a time. My condition has improved significantly—at least, that's what the doctors keep telling me. They're pleased with my progress, though they're careful not to make any promises. They remind me and my parents that the road to full recovery is still uncertain. The truth is, I don't know how far I'll go, but I'm starting to feel like I have more control over where this journey might lead.

I can sit up for longer periods without feeling like my body is going to collapse under me, and during my physical therapy sessions, I've even managed to take a few steps with help. They're small steps, barely more than a shuffle, but to me, they feel monumental. Each one is a victory. Each one makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, I can get back to the person I used to be.

Inside my head, there's always this voice whispering doubts—What if this is all I'll ever be? What if I can't get back to who I was? But then I look at Grady and Edaline, and they're always there, always believing in me. Their unwavering support, their faith that I can do this, it pushes me forward when I want to give up.

They remind me to take things one day at a time, to celebrate the little wins, and to lean on them when I can't carry the weight on my own. The road ahead is still uncertain, but having them beside me—especially on the days when everything feels like too much—gives me the strength to keep going. They're my anchors, and as long as I have them, maybe, just maybe, I can get through this.

Physically, I can feel myself getting stronger, bit by bit. But emotionally? That's a different story. The trauma of everything—the near-death experience, the constant fear that I might not make it through, the uncertainty that still hangs over me—feels like a weight I can't shake off. It's not something I can heal with a few steps or a few breaths. It's something deeper, harder to touch, and much harder to fix.

One evening, as Grady and Edaline sit beside me, I finally open up. The words are hard to get out, but I know I need to say them. "I don't know if I'll ever be the same again," I confess, my voice shaky. "No matter how much I heal physically, I'm afraid I'll never feel like... me. The person I was before—strong, confident, like I could take on the world—I don't know if she'll come back."

They listen, no judgment, no rush to fix it. Grady gently squeezes my hand, and Edaline looks at me with eyes full of understanding. "You don't have to be the same person, Sophie," Edaline says softly. "Healing isn't just about getting your body back. It's about healing your heart, your mind, your spirit, too. And that takes time."

Grady adds, "We're here for you. You don't need to rush this. You need to feel what you feel, and you'll find your way through it—one step at a time."

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of their words sink in. Maybe I won't be the same person. Maybe that version of me is gone forever. But that doesn't mean I'm lost. I've changed, yes. But there's strength in what I've been through, strength in how far I've come. I don't have to have all the answers yet. I don't have to rush to figure it out. Healing, in all its forms, takes time—and that's okay. I can take the time I need to rediscover who I am.