I wrapped the thin hospital blanket around myself, feeling its scratchy fibers against my skin as a reminder that I was, undeniably, still here. The days since that night on the bridge felt hazy, each one blending into the next with no markers of time, just brief moments of daylight stretching through the hospital window. Every time I awoke, the first rush of awareness brought a pang of regret. Yet beneath it, somewhere in the depths, there was something else—maybe a whisper that felt something like relief.
This morning, the nurse came with a new look on her face. She had that kind of expression people wear when they're about to nudge you forward, whether or not you're ready.
"A therapy consultation is available if you're interested," she said, her voice gentle but edged with expectation.
I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the blanket. Therapy? My mind recoiled, searching for excuses to refuse, but nothing would form. I had no energy left to argue with anyone, not even myself. So, I nodded.
Now, standing before a door at the end of the hallway, my heart pounded, the sudden weight of anxiety settling in my stomach. This small act, this step into a room, felt larger than I'd anticipated, and I wondered if I could do it. The faded plaque read "Dr. Marion Calloway," and even her name felt like something beyond my reach. My hand hovered over the doorknob as I took a shaky breath and turned it.
Inside was warmth, the kind of intentional coziness that contrasted with the sterile hallways. The leather armchairs sat positioned just close enough to suggest an invitation but far enough to respect distance. Across from me sat a middle-aged woman with a kind face and steady eyes that seemed to see everything at once.
"Annelise?" she said, tilting her head as if studying me, but not in the way doctors or family had done in the past. It wasn't judgmental or clinical—it was gentle. Patient.
I sat down and let her words sink in. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say," I muttered, staring at the floor.
"That's okay," Dr. Calloway replied softly. "We don't need to have any goals or agendas today. I'm just here to listen if you want to share."
I felt my defenses rise, a wall of cynicism and pain almost mocking her offer. It was tempting to pretend everything was fine, to say I didn't need this, that she didn't understand. But then, the memory of that night on the bridge filled my mind, the dark, unsteady waves below, the emptiness in my chest, and the stranger who'd reached out, pulling me back from the edge.
"There was someone…" I said slowly, my voice faltering. "He…he saved me."
Dr. Calloway listened quietly, her expression softening, and she nodded as if to encourage me to continue.
"I don't know who he is," I admitted, feeling strangely exposed saying it out loud. "He jumped in, risked…everything to pull me back. And I don't even know his name."
"You sound like he left an impact," she noted gently, her voice calm.
I nodded, staring at my hands. "I don't even know why he'd do it. I mean…I was a stranger. He didn't know me."
"Maybe he saw someone worth saving," she replied, her voice steady, like a touchstone against my own wavering thoughts.
The words settled into the quiet spaces of the room, somehow more grounding than I'd expected. In a strange way, they reminded me that maybe, despite all my fears, I wasn't as lost as I'd felt on that bridge. Maybe I'd just forgotten how to find myself in the shadows of expectation, grief, and regret.
As the days went on, the routine became a lifeline. I spent the mornings in therapy, learning to sift through the layers of feelings I'd buried for so long. The numbness I'd wrapped myself in began to dissolve, leaving jagged edges that felt raw but honest. Each day was an uphill climb, but the silent weight on my chest started to ease, little by little.
The memory of him—my stranger, my rescuer—lingered in my thoughts, a constant presence I couldn't shake. Sometimes, I found myself retracing the moment he'd appeared out of the shadows, the determination in his eyes as he'd pulled me to safety. It haunted me, not just because he'd saved me, but because I didn't understand why he'd cared.
One morning, as I was waiting for my session with Dr. Calloway, I caught sight of him across the hall. He was standing outside a patient room, his brow furrowed as he flipped through a chart. In a moment of startling clarity, I realized how much I wanted to thank him, to say something to close the loop that had been left open since that night.
And then, as if sensing my gaze, he looked up.
For a brief, endless second, our eyes met, and my heart thudded painfully in my chest. I'd pictured this moment, rehearsed it even, but nothing had prepared me for the real thing. His face softened with recognition, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression.
"Annelise," he said quietly, as if testing the sound of my name.
I nodded, a rush of gratitude and vulnerability welling up inside me. "I didn't expect to see you," I managed, my voice barely audible.
He glanced down, as if struggling with his own words. "I didn't either," he replied, before clearing his throat. "Are you…are you doing okay?"
The question held so much weight that it almost unraveled me. "I…yes. Better, I think. Thanks to you."
His eyes softened, but there was something distant about his gaze. "I'm glad to hear that." He hesitated, then added, "But you don't owe me anything. You don't have to feel obligated."
I swallowed, the honesty of his words making me feel both exposed and reassured. "I know," I said softly. "But I feel like…I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."
For a moment, he looked away, his jaw tensing. "You're stronger than you think, Annelise," he said, his voice steady but almost detached. "The choice to fight was yours."
His words echoed in my mind, pressing against the inner walls I'd built. It wasn't something I'd wanted to hear, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it. It reminded me that even in my weakest moment, a part of me had chosen to hold on.
I nodded slowly. "I don't feel strong," I whispered, the vulnerability in my own voice surprising me. "But I want to try."
His gaze held mine, offering a kind of silent encouragement I hadn't expected. "That's all anyone can do," he replied, a note of finality in his tone.
We lingered there, standing in the hallway, words hovering between us. For a moment, the noise of the hospital faded, and it felt like the only thing that mattered was this fragile understanding that had somehow formed between us.
"Take care of yourself, Annelise," he said at last, a warmth in his voice that felt like a farewell.
I nodded, my chest tightening with something I couldn't quite name. "You too," I replied, feeling the words resonate in the silence as he turned and walked away, his figure slowly fading down the hallway.
As I returned to the therapy room, a strange peace settled over me. I couldn't explain it, but for the first time in a long time, the future felt possible, like a faint glow at the end of a long tunnel.
Dr. Calloway greeted me with a knowing look, her eyes warm and understanding. I took my seat, feeling lighter, a small smile tugging at my lips. This journey would be long, but I realized now that I didn't have to face it alone. There were people who cared—people who, even if they didn't know me deeply, saw something worth saving.
And maybe, just maybe, I could learn to see it too.