The weeks after the surgery blurred into slow days and restless nights. Avery's room smelled faintly of antiseptic and the herbal oils her mother massaged onto her temples. Luke hovered nearby, but it was Phoebe who rarely left her side.
At first, Avery thought she was fine with just stitched and bandaged but the doctors soon explained what the CT scan had revealed: a minor brain injury. Her short-term memory had been shaken. She struggled to recall events from the weeks and months before the crash. Sometimes even words slipped from her tongue; she had to pause, gather her thoughts, then speak slowly.
"Don't worry," Phoebe would whisper, brushing hair from Avery's forehead.
"You're still you. Just… a little slower for now. And that's okay."
The hospital smelled the same as it always did—too clean, too sharp, the hum of machines filling the silence. Phoebe held Avery's arm as they walked down the corridor toward the neurology wing for her check-up. Avery hated that part—the way she leaned into Phoebe without meaning to, how her balance sometimes wavered if she turned too quickly.
During the control, the doctor examined her scars, reviewed her CT results again, and asked her to perform simple memory tests. Avery stumbled on some. She furrowed her brow when asked to repeat three words. She paused too long before answering questions about recent dates.
"It's normal," the doctor reassured. "These things take time. But she needs patience—both from herself and those around her."
On the way back to the car, Avery's lips pressed into a tight line. Phoebe opened the passenger door for her.
"I hate this," Avery muttered, sinking into the seat. "It's like my brain's broken. Like… I'm broken."
Phoebe buckled in and reached for her hand. "You're not broken. You're healing. There's a difference."
Avery didn't answer. She turned her face to the window, cheeks wet.
One afternoon, Avery sat by her mirror with Phoebe. She help her remove her bandage, Phoebe knew this is gonna be so hard for Avery. For the first time, she saw herself fully, she see the jagged still red and wet line across her forehead, the stitched corner of her mouth, the chipped smile.
Her breath caught. The girl in the mirror looked like a stranger. Tears slid down her cheeks before she even realized she was crying."Look at me," she whispered.
"I'm ruined. Who's ever gonna… who's ever gonna want me like this?"
Phoebe knelt beside her, forcing Avery to turn her face away from the mirror.
"Don't you dare say that. You're alive, Avery. That's what matters. Scars don't ruin you. They… remind you. That you survived."
Avery pressed her forehead into Phoebe's shoulder, sobbing until her body shook.
That night, Phoebe suggested dinner at their favorite café near the beach. They sat under the dim yellow light, plates of pasta steaming between them, glasses clinking softly in the background.
Avery tried to keep up the old rhythm of their talks, but Phoebe could see the cracks. Avery forgot the name of the dessert she always ordered. She repeated the same story about Luke twice in one sitting, only realizing when Phoebe's smile faltered.
She set her fork down, frustrated. "See? I can't even hold a normal conversation anymore."
Phoebe leaned forward, her voice firm. "Stop. Don't punish yourself for something you can't control."
"But it's not fair to you," Avery whispered. "You have to sit here and watch me fall apart."
Phoebe's throat tightened. She reached across the table, taking Avery's trembling hand. "Then let me. If sitting here means being with you, I'll do it a thousand times."
Avery blinked fast, trying to smile through her tears.
Phoebe squeezed her hand harder, but inside her chest burned. Every word she spoke was true—but also a lie. Because soon, she'd be gone. And every time she saw Avery struggle like this, the thought dug deeper: How can I leave her now?