Amy’s POV
Everything was white.
That was the first thing I noticed. It wasn’t bright, but soft—like fog and light were mixing together, floating around me. There was a steady beeping somewhere nearby, slow and rhythmic. My body felt heavy, like I had been asleep for a hundred years. Every part of me ached, even though I couldn’t quite tell why.
Then came the voices—faint and muffled at first, like they were on the other side of a closed door.
“She hasn’t moved,” someone said quietly. “But her vitals are stable.”
“She’s strong,” another voice whispered back. “She’ll wake up. She has to.”
I wanted to move, to say something, but everything was too far away. My limbs didn’t belong to me. My lips wouldn’t form words.
But then—someone said my name.
“Amy.”
The voice cracked mid-word, like it had been holding onto something for too long and finally let go.
“Amy,” it repeated, louder this time. “Oh my god… you’re awake.”
The white haze started to clear. My eyes fluttered open, and I blinked against the overhead lights until the world slowly sharpened. My vision was blurry at first, like I was underwater, but then I saw him—James.
He was standing right beside the hospital bed, leaning over me, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with so much emotion it made my throat tighten. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His breath hitched as he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead with trembling fingers.
“James?” I whispered, my voice dry and cracked.
He let out a breath like he had been holding it for days. “You’re awake,” he said again, choking out a laugh that sounded like it might turn into a sob. “God, I was so scared.”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt like sandpaper. “What… what happened?”
He carefully took my hand in his, his thumb gently brushing across my knuckles. “You were hit by a car, Amy,” he said slowly, his voice full of pain. “It was bad. You’ve been in a coma for almost a week.”
A week.
The words echoed inside me, but they didn’t feel real. How could I have lost a week of my life?
Before I could ask more, the door burst open.
My father rushed into the room, and the moment he saw me awake, he let out a loud, broken sob. Tears poured down his face as he moved quickly to the other side of the bed, grabbing my free hand and holding it tight.
“Baby girl,” he cried. “Oh my god… we thought we lost you.”
His grip was warm, almost desperate. For the first time in years, I saw him cry—not a silent tear, not a composed frown—but real, shaking grief.
I looked at him, overwhelmed. Then, with my throat still burning, I asked, “Where’s Mom?”
There was a long pause.
He looked away, down at the tile floor. His shoulders dropped, and the words came out so quietly I almost didn’t hear them.
“She didn’t come,” he whispered. “She’s back in Italy.”
I didn’t react right away. I just stared at the ceiling. Somewhere inside, I had known that already. Still, hearing it out loud hurt more than I wanted to admit.
James leaned closer again, pressing his forehead softly to the side of my temple. He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, gently, he kissed my forehead—tender, careful, like I might break if he got too close.
“I meant it, you know,” he whispered.
I turned my head slightly to look at him, my eyelids already growing heavy again.
“I love you,” he said, his voice breaking just a little. “I’ve never meant anything more.”
My heart beat faster—not from fear this time, but from something else. Something that felt like hope.
I blinked slowly, still groggy, but there was no hesitation in my voice when I whispered back, “You’re the first person I wanted to see.”