Chapter 1 — The Hospital Window

Paylor

The sterile smell bites at the edges of my senses before I even crack my eyes open. It’s sharp and clean, with a faint undertone of disinfectant that clings to the air like it’s trying to ward off the world. My body feels heavy, half-swallowed by the stiff embrace of scratchy hospital sheets, and every breath pulls sharp against my ribs.

I force my eyes open. The room blinks into focus, one piece at a time. Pale gray walls blur into the overcast sky outside the window, where dull light filters through a thin curtain. The faint patter of rain echoes somewhere beyond the glass, steady and rhythmic, as if the world is holding its breath. Machines beep softly to my left, a metronome tethering me to the present, even as the rest of me feels adrift.

I shift my arms, and a dull, gnawing sensation radiates beneath the bandages wrapped tightly around them. My gaze drops before I can stop it. The faint outline of scars peeks from beneath the gauze—raw, jagged lines carved into skin that doesn’t feel like mine anymore. My stomach twists, a sharp pang of grief and shame that pulses with each heartbeat. For a moment, I can’t breathe. My fingers clench the coarse fabric of the sheets, and I dig my nails into the material to keep from sinking further. My mind drifts, unbidden, to flashes of memory—flailing hands, cold metal, and the biting sting of despair. My chest tightens, and I slam the door shut on the thoughts before they can drag me under.

The door creaks open, and I flinch at the sudden intrusion. A nurse steps in, her scrubs a soft shade of lavender that seems almost out of place amid the starkness of the room. Her expression is warm, but there’s a careful stillness to her movements, like she’s approaching something fragile. She hesitates just enough to make it clear this isn’t her first time walking into a room like this.

“You’re awake,” she says, her voice gentle but steady, like the rain outside. “How are you feeling?”

I don’t answer right away. My throat tightens, words tangling somewhere between my lungs and my mouth. The questions circling in my head—What happened? Why am I still here? Should I even be glad that I am?—loom too large to voice.

She doesn’t press me. Instead, she moves with practiced ease to check the machines, her movements efficient but unhurried. The room feels quieter with her in it, though the rain tapping against the window keeps its steady rhythm. After a moment, she glances at me again.

“It’s okay to feel lost right now,” she says softly, meeting my gaze. “Being here means you’re stronger than you think.”

Her words land somewhere deep in my chest, unsettling something I hadn’t realized I was holding. I nod—just barely—a small, stiff motion that seems to encourage her to continue.

“You’ve been through a lot,” she says, pulling a chair closer to the bed. “No one expects you to have it all figured out. But you’re here. That matters.”

I glance away, my gaze landing on the window. Outside, the rain streaks down in uneven trails, blurring the world beyond it. Her words don’t feel empty, but they don’t feel like mine yet either. I don’t know if I’m ready for them to be.

The faint scrape of metal catches my ear, pulling my attention back to her. She reaches into the pocket of her scrubs and pulls out something small and dark.

“This might help,” she says, holding it out to me.

It’s a journal. The cover is worn leather, scuffed and scratched in a way that makes it look like it’s been through its own battles. My fingers hesitate before taking it, the weight of it solid and unfamiliar in my hands. The faint scent of leather mingles with the sterile air, grounding me in the moment.

“It was mine,” she admits, her smile faint but genuine. “I used to write when things felt too heavy to carry alone. Thought you might want to give it a try.”

I trace the edges of the cover with my thumb, the rough texture catching against my skin. My feelings are too tangled, too raw, too much to let loose. But something about the journal feels steady—like it’s been waiting for someone to pick it up again, to give it purpose. I imagine, just for a second, spilling my thoughts onto the pages, untangling the knots inside me one word at a time. The idea feels impossible, but maybe... Maybe.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat. My voice feels foreign, cracked and small, but the nurse doesn’t seem to mind.

Her smile widens just enough to crinkle the corners of her eyes. “Take care of yourself,” she says softly, standing to leave. “One step at a time. That’s all it takes.”

The door closes behind her, and the room grows quieter, the rain’s rhythm filling the space she leaves behind. The journal sits heavy in my lap, its presence both comforting and unnerving. I flip it open, letting the pages fan out. The faint lines stretch across the paper like an invitation, patient and unassuming.

But I don’t write. Not yet.

Instead, I glance down at my arms. My scars itch beneath the bandages, a constant reminder of what I’ve survived—and what I can’t forget. They’re ugly, uneven, jagged in a way that feels too loud, too permanent. I wonder if they’ll ever fade, or if they’ll always scream what I’m too afraid to say out loud. The ache in my chest swells again, sharp and unrelenting, until I force myself to look away.

My gaze drifts back to the window. The world outside feels distant, like I’m watching it through frosted glass. The people out there—they don’t know this kind of heaviness, the kind that wraps itself around your chest and makes you feel like you’ll never breathe properly again. Or maybe they do, but they’ve hidden it better than I ever could.

My parents haven’t visited. They called once, maybe twice, but the conversations were clipped and awkward, like they didn’t quite know what to say. My mother had asked, in her hesitant voice, if I needed anything. My father, always more direct, had said, “Focus on getting better.” I told myself I didn’t care, but the truth is harder to swallow. They’ve never been good at fixing broken things. And me? I’m shattered.

The thought digs into me, cold and sharp, tightening the ache in my chest. My grip tightens on the edges of the journal. I can’t stay here. Not in this bed, not in this house, not in this life. The walls of the hospital room close in around me, the steady beeping of the machines suddenly too loud, too insistent.

Harvard.

The thought strikes like a match, quick and startling. It’s not new—I’ve thought about it before, dreamed of it in the quiet moments when the world felt too small. A place like Harvard, with its sprawling quads and ancient libraries, feels like a world away from here. I picture myself there, walking among towering ivy-covered buildings, the air crisp and alive with possibility. It feels impossibly far, too big, too much for someone like me.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe I need big. Maybe I need far. Maybe I need the kind of place where I can lose myself—or find myself, if that’s even possible.

My fingers brush the journal again, its worn leather soft beneath my touch. The rain outside slows, the faint patter easing into quiet. I don’t know what I’ll find at Harvard. I don’t know if I’ll sink or swim, if it’ll be better or worse. But I know this: I can’t stay here. I can’t keep staring out this window, watching the world leave me behind.

I take a deep breath, the air shaky in my lungs, and close the journal. For the first time in what feels like forever, something stirs inside me. Not hope exactly, but something close.

The nurse’s words echo in my mind, steady and grounding: one step at a time.

And so, I decide to take the first step.