The hospital room was dim, the soft glow of the nightlights casting shadows on the walls. Brinch lay in bed, his IV drip beeping rhythmically, the steady pulse of the machine blending with the sound of his shallow breath. Jacob sat by his side, watching him, but the exhaustion of the long day was settling in. He had just finished his rounds, and for once, he was letting the quiet wash over him.
But Brinch wasn't asleep—not yet. His eyes were closed, his expression tight with a mixture of pain and restlessness. The weight of the surgery looming in the morning had kept him tossing and turning, and Jacob could see that the emotional toll was just as heavy as the physical. Brinch hadn't spoken much since they had their conversation earlier. There was something locked inside of him, something he hadn't shared—something he hadn't fully come to terms with.
Jacob leaned back in his chair, a quiet presence in the room as he kept watch. He was content to let Brinch rest, but a part of him couldn't help but wonder about what Brinch had been through. He hadn't heard the whole story, and though he didn't press, he found himself yearning to know more.
As he sat in the quiet, the stillness seemed to change. The subtle shift in the atmosphere was barely noticeable at first—until Brinch's breathing deepened and his muscles relaxed, his brow smoothing out. His lips parted slightly, and Jacob noticed the faintest tremor in his fingers. It was as though the weight of his thoughts was too much to bear while awake, so his mind had begun to drift into something deeper.
And then, without warning, Brinch's body went still. His face relaxed, and Jacob realized that he had fallen into a deep sleep.
But it wasn't a peaceful sleep.
The room grew colder, the shadows more pronounced. Brinch's breathing quickened, his body jerking slightly as if something was disturbing him. A muffled sound escaped his lips—something between a sigh and a groan.
Jacob sat forward, suddenly more alert. He was about to reach for Brinch's hand, to comfort him, when he noticed something strange. Brinch's face, still peaceful in some ways, was slowly shifting. His expression contorted as if he was reliving something painful—something buried deep.
And then, as though the past had found its way into the present, Brinch began to dream.
In the dream, Brinch was young again.
The sun was high in the sky, casting a harsh, blinding light over the field where he stood. The air was thick with the smell of freshly cut grass, mixed with the sharp scent of sweat. His hands were gripping the football tightly, the leather cool against his palms.
He could hear the roar of the crowd, the sound of feet pounding the ground, the sharp crack of bodies colliding. It was a high school game, the kind where everything seemed to matter more than it should, where every play felt like it would define his future.
Brinch was a star—at least in his mind. His teammates were shouting his name, cheering him on. He felt invincible, powerful. With every sprint, every tackle, every touchdown, he could feel their admiration. The adoration. It was the one place where he felt seen, where he felt he mattered.
"Go, Brinch! You got this!" his best friend called from the sideline.
Brinch grinned, nodding as he scanned the field. The other team was strong, but so was he. He wasn't just bigger than them—he was faster, stronger, more determined.
The ball was snapped. Brinch took off running, the field stretching out before him like an open road. His legs burned with the effort, but he pushed through the pain. He could hear the other players behind him, but he wasn't worried. He would outrun them. He always did.
But as he reached for the end zone, something happened.
His knee buckled, the sharp crack of bone against bone echoing in the stillness of his mind. The pain was immediate, unbearable, radiating from his knee, shooting up through his thigh, until it felt like his whole leg had been torn apart.
He fell to the ground, the ball slipping from his hands. The crowd's cheers turned into shouts of concern, and Brinch could hear the faint sound of his coach's voice, shouting for someone to help.
But he couldn't move.
His knee was no longer functioning the way it should. He couldn't get up, couldn't run. The game—his game—was over.
The dream shifted, and now Brinch was older, but the same haunting pain still lingered.
He was walking through the hallways of a hospital, the fluorescent lights above flickering as he limped down the sterile, white corridors. His leg was in a brace, his knee swollen and bruised. He didn't know exactly what had happened—had it been months? Years?—but it didn't matter. The damage had already been done. He was past the point of saving it.
Brinch stopped in front of a door. The sign on it read: Orthopedics – Knee Surgery Consultations.
He knew what was coming next. He had avoided this for years, but there was no more running. No more pretending.
He pushed the door open. Inside, a doctor stood, waiting for him with a clipboard in hand.
"Brinch," the doctor said, his voice professional, detached. "We've reviewed your MRI results. The damage is extensive. You've got bone spurs, cartilage tears, and some misalignment. Surgery is your only option if you want to be able to walk again without pain."
Brinch didn't speak. He couldn't. The weight of it all was suffocating. The thought that the one thing that had given him purpose—his ability to run, to play, to be someone—was now slipping away from him.
The dream shifted again, and this time, Brinch was even older.
He was standing on the sideline of a football field, but now, he wasn't a player. He was a spectator, his eyes searching the field as the game unfolded.
His body was different now—heavier, worn down. His knee was a constant ache, a reminder of everything he'd lost. But it wasn't just his knee that ached. It was the feeling of having nothing left to give. Of having outlived the dream he had once held so tightly.
Suddenly, Brinch jolted awake, his breath coming in quick gasps. His hand clutched his knee instinctively, and he winced at the familiar ache.
Jacob was still sitting there, a quiet presence in the corner of the room. Brinch's eyes found him, though his mind was still tangled in the remnants of the dream.
"Jacob," Brinch rasped, his voice hoarse from the dream that still clung to him.
Jacob stood up, his hand reaching out to steady him. "You okay?" he asked gently, his eyes scanning Brinch's face.
Brinch nodded, though his expression was distant, as though the weight of everything he'd been through was still pressing down on him. "Yeah. Just a bad dream."
Jacob sat back down beside him, the tension in the room palpable. He didn't press further, didn't ask about the details of the dream, but he could see it—the pain, the regret. The long road that had led Brinch here.
"You don't have to talk about it," Jacob said quietly, his voice a soft comfort. "But I'm here if you want to."
Brinch turned his head toward him, and for a moment, their eyes locked. There was something unspoken in the air between them, something that reached beyond the shared silence. It wasn't just about the knee. It was about everything that had brought him here—everything he had lost and everything he was still trying to understand.
"Thanks," Brinch whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Jacob smiled, leaning in just a little. "You don't have to figure it all out tonight. We'll get through this, together."
Brinch nodded, his eyes slipping closed again, but this time, there was a quiet peace about him. A peace that came from knowing, at least for now, he didn't have to carry everything alone.
