The bedroom felt too quiet for a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of quiet that pressed against my ears and made the ceiling fan sound like an engine.
My leg, wrapped in a heavy white cast, rested on two pillows I had not arranged myself.
On the nightstand sat a half-finished wedding planning binder and a framed engagement photo where Adam was kissing my cheek under string lights.
That was all the time I had until the wedding, and I had spent the morning at the hospital learning how to live inside a body that suddenly needed permission to move.
I remembered Adam at the doctor’s office, squeezing my hand and smiling at the nurse.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” he had said, in that low, warm voice that made strangers trust him instantly.