I turned my head just enough to meet her eyes.
That small movement cost me more than I expected.
Pain flared along my side.
My fingers twitched under the blanket.
They did not rise.
I wanted to say, “Stop.”
I wanted to say, “Mom, look at me.”
I wanted to say, “I was in a crash. I am not performing for you.”
Nothing came out.
Sometimes survival looks like cowardice from the outside.
From the inside, it feels like counting every breath and deciding which one is worth spending.
Tessa’s hand moved before I understood what she was reaching for.
She grabbed the monitor cord.
For one half-second, I thought she was going to move it out of the way.
Then she yanked.
The plug slipped loose.
The screen went black.
The beeping stopped.
The quiet that followed did not feel peaceful.
It felt like the room had taken one step closer to a cliff.
