Rehab had a strange rhythm. Days stretched out with the monotony of therapy, meals, and exhaustion, yet every small victory seemed to add a new color to the otherwise gray palette. Yesterday's applause from the rehab showcase still rang in my ears. It had been the first time I had walked across a room with so many eyes on me, not as a patient, but as a man fighting to reclaim himself.
But this morning, the silence felt heavier.
The walls of my room, pale cream with posters about positivity and recovery, began to feel less like encouragement and more like boundaries. I wanted more than just steps on parallel bars and forced smiles during counseling sessions. I wanted to breathe in open air, to see Ann without fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, to imagine a life beyond these corridors.
Ann arrived as she always did— sunlight wrapped in a simple dupatta, her books tucked under one arm. She balanced her teaching job and my recovery with a grace I didn't understand.
"Good morning, hero," she greeted with that warm smile that never failed to soften the edges of my restlessness.
I forced a smile back. "Morning. How was class?"
Her eyes lit up as she sat by my side. "Challenging. I asked them to write essays on resilience. One boy wrote that watching his father survive a heart attack taught him resilience. Another girl wrote about her mother working two jobs to keep her in school. And… I thought of you."
Her voice lingered on that word— you. As if resilience had a face, and it was mine.
But I shook my head. "Resilience doesn't mean being trapped here forever. Ann… don't you ever feel tired of this? Of me?"
Her eyes widened, almost offended. "Tired? Dennis, don't do that to me. Don't reduce everything to pity or duty. If I were tired, I wouldn't be here every day. If I didn't believe in this, in us, I would have walked away long ago."
The sting of her words silenced me, but deep down, a part of me still wrestled with the doubt.
I saw it again— that shadow that sometimes crossed his face after moments of triumph. It was like he couldn't let himself be fully happy.
Dennis had always been a man of movement, of dreams that stretched beyond walls. Now these walls suffocated him. I could see it in the way his fingers tapped against the armrest, restless, unsatisfied.
So I decided to push forward where he hesitated.
"Dennis," I said softly, laying my hand over his. "I've been thinking. The wedding. We don't have to rush, but… we don't have to wait for some perfect day when you've fully recovered either. We can plan slowly, little by little. What matters is the promise, not the perfection."
His eyes darted to mine, filled with both longing and fear. "Ann… how can I stand beside you when I can barely stand on my own?"
I squeezed his hand. "By standing in the way you can now. With courage. With honesty. With love. Don't you see? Our life doesn't begin after rehab— it's already begun. These walls aren't our prison. They're just the first chapter of something bigger."
He looked away, jaw tight. "But what about the struggles, Ann? The whispers, the pity, the future where you'll have to carry more weight than you deserve?"
I leaned closer, my voice fierce. "Then let me carry it! Don't you dare rob me of my choice, Dennis. Love isn't about easy futures. It's about holding on, even when the ground is unsteady. And I choose you, again and again."
His breath hitched, and for a moment, silence hung between us like a fragile thread.
Her words sank into me, raw and undeniable. She wasn't naïve— Ann knew the struggles. She had seen me break down, scream in frustration, collapse in exhaustion. And yet she was still here, fighting harder than I ever did.
That evening, my parents visited with Jacob and Roy. The small room buzzed with warmth —Jacob cracking jokes about how he should take over as my personal trainer, Roy talking about campus life, my mother fussing over whether I was eating enough, and my father quietly watching, his eyes shining with unspoken pride.
It almost felt… normal.
Then Jacob, as always, went too far. "So, Dennis, should we practice your wedding vows during therapy? Might make the steps easier if Ann is at the other end with sindoor."
Everyone laughed, even Ann. I tried to, but my throat tightened. I wasn't ready for that picture. Not yet.
Roy noticed the flicker of unease and gently shifted the conversation. "You know, Dennis, rehab is only one part of life. I've seen patients return to work, even start new ventures. Progress looks different for everyone. What matters is not putting life on pause while waiting for perfect."
His words echoed Ann's earlier ones. I felt cornered by truth from all sides.
That night, after everyone left, I sat with Ann in the quiet.
"Do you really think we can start planning?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Her eyes softened. "Not think, Dennis. I know. Because every dream doesn't have to be fully built before we live it. Sometimes you start with a foundation and build as you go."
I closed my eyes, letting her words wash over me. Maybe… maybe she was right.
The next week, I began bringing small things to his room: fabric swatches, simple sketches of mandap decorations, a diary where I jotted down ideas. I didn't pressure him, just placed them nearby.
At first he would glance at them skeptically, but slowly, he began to engage.
"What's this?" he asked one evening, picking up a sketch.
"Just a thought for floral colors," I said lightly.
He studied it longer than he needed to. "You're serious about this."
I nodded. "Serious about us."
For the first time, instead of shutting down, he smiled faintly. "Red and white. Like hope and courage."
My heart swelled. It was a small step, but a step nonetheless.
Therapy grew harder as the weeks rolled on, but my determination deepened. Each drop of sweat, each tremor in my muscles felt tied to something bigger than me.
One day, after a particularly brutal session, Meera said, "You've come farther than you give yourself credit for, Dennis. Don't underestimate the steps you've already taken."
Later, lying in bed, Ann curled up on the chair beside me, I whispered, "Do you think I'll ever be the man I was before?"
She looked at me for a long time, then shook her head gently. "No."
My chest tightened until she added, "You'll be stronger. Because the man before was whole in body, but the man now has learned to fight with heart."
Tears burned my eyes, unbidden. I turned away, but she caught my face, refusing to let me hide.
And for the first time, I let myself believe her.
The day I saw Dennis write my full name, shaky but clear— "Ann"— I cried like a child.
He grinned through his own tears. "I told you I'd move toward you."
And in that moment, I realized the truth: our dreams weren't waiting outside these walls. They were growing right here, between steps, between scribbled letters, between the moments when hope dared to bloom despite everything.
That evening, as we sat by the rehab garden under the fading light, Dennis took my hand and whispered, "Ann, maybe… maybe it's time to stop waiting for tomorrow. Maybe we start building today."
I leaned my head on his shoulder, smiling through tears. "That's all I've ever wanted, Dennis. To build, step by step, dream by dream, together."
The walls around us didn't feel suffocating anymore. They felt like a beginning.