The first thing I noticed when I woke up in the hospital was the strange, antiseptic smell that seemed to cling to everything. The room was quiet, except for the steady beep of machines and the occasional footsteps in the hallway. I stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of where I was and why everything felt so... distant.
A month. That's how long they told me I'd been there. A month of drifting in and out of consciousness, barely aware of the world around me. My body had been broken, and my mind was shattered. And every time I closed my eyes, I saw the accident again—the flash of headlights, the sound of metal crunching, my parents' faces, and then the darkness.
When I was finally discharged, I felt like a ghost. I was physically there but not really. My grandparents, who I hadn't seen much growing up, were there to take me home. They looked older than I remembered, their faces lined with worry and sadness. They tried to smile, to be strong for me, but I could see the strain in their eyes.
"We're here for you, Seren," Grandma said softly as she helped me into their car. "We'll get through this together."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The words stuck in my throat like jagged stones. I wanted to believe her, but everything felt so hollow.
The drive to their house was a blur. I stared out the window, watching the snowy landscape pass by, but it all felt unreal, like I was watching someone else's life unfold. The trees were bare, their branches reaching out like skeletal hands, and the sky was a dull gray, matching my mood.
When we arrived at their house—a small, cozy place on the outskirts of town—I felt a pang of nostalgia mixed with dread. I hadn't been there in years, not since I was a kid. Back then, it had been a place of warmth and laughter, but now it felt like a prison, trapping me in a reality I didn't want to face.
Grandpa helped me out of the car, his grip firm but gentle. "Take it slow, son," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "No rush. We've got all the time in the world."
I nodded again, leaning on him for support as we made our way inside. The house smelled like cinnamon and pine, and I wondered if Grandma had baked something to cheer me up. But the thought of food made my stomach turn.
Once inside, they led me to the small guest room at the back of the house. The walls were painted a soft blue, and there was a quilt on the bed that Grandma had made years ago. It was the same room I'd slept in as a child during summer visits. The sight of it brought a lump to my throat, and I had to swallow hard to keep from crying.
"You can rest here," Grandma said, smoothing the quilt with a shaky hand. "We're just down the hall if you need anything."
"Thanks," I muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed. I stared at the floor, my hands gripping the edge of the mattress. The room felt too quiet, too still.
After they left, I lay down, pulling the quilt up to my chin. I closed my eyes, hoping for sleep to take me away, but all I saw was the accident again and again. The sound of my parents arguing, the blinding headlights, the shattering glass. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, but it was no use. The memories were like a broken record, playing on a loop.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. I went through the motions, existing but not really living. My grandparents tried their best to make things feel normal—Grandma cooked my favorite meals, and Grandpa took me on walks through the snowy woods behind the house—but nothing could fill the void inside me.
Then came high school graduation. I don't remember much about the ceremony. I sat in my cap and gown, listening to speeches I didn't care about, surrounded by classmates who seemed like strangers. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact, counting down the minutes until it was over.
After the ceremony, my grandparents took me out to dinner at a local diner. They tried to celebrate, to make me feel proud of what I'd accomplished, but all I felt was emptiness. The food tasted like cardboard, and the conversations around us sounded distant, like I was underwater.
"We're so proud of you, Seren," Grandpa said, raising his glass in a toast. "Your parents would be, too."
I forced a smile, lifting my own glass, but the mention of my parents made my chest tighten. "Thanks," I mumbled, taking a sip of my drink. The fizzy soda burned my throat, and I put the glass down, suddenly feeling nauseous.
That summer passed in a haze. I spent most of it in my room, avoiding friends and ignoring calls. The few times I ventured out, I felt like an outsider in my own life. Everyone else seemed to be moving on, planning for college or their next big adventure, while I was stuck in place, weighed down by grief.
Eventually, it was time to leave for college. I'd chosen a school a few hours away, far enough to escape the memories but close enough to visit my grandparents if I needed to. I packed my things in a daze, not really thinking about what lay ahead. I just knew I had to go, had to get away from the house and the town that held too many painful memories.
My grandparents drove me to campus on a warm September morning. The trees were just starting to turn, their leaves a mix of green and gold. As we pulled up to the dorms, I felt a mix of fear and relief. This was my chance to start over, to build a new life from the ashes of the old one.
"We're proud of you, Seren," Grandma said, hugging me tightly. "And if you ever need anything, we're just a phone call away."
"Thanks, Grandma," I replied, hugging her back. I turned to Grandpa, who pulled me into a bear hug, his grip strong and comforting.
"Take care of yourself, son," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "We'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too," I whispered, feeling a lump form in my throat. I watched as they drove away, their car disappearing down the winding road, and for the first time in a long while, I felt a flicker of something that wasn't pain. It wasn't quite hope, but it was close.
College was a blur of new faces and endless classes. I threw myself into my studies, using them as a distraction from the grief that still gnawed at me. I made a few friends, but I kept them at arm's length, afraid to let anyone get too close. I didn't want to be the broken kid with the tragic past, so I kept my pain locked away, hidden behind a mask of normalcy.
By the time I graduated, I had managed to carve out a small sense of stability. I wasn't happy—far from it—but I was surviving. I found a job in a new city, far from the town where I'd grown up, and moved into a small apartment. It wasn't much, but it was mine.
As I unpacked my things and settled into my new place, I allowed myself a moment of quiet reflection. I still missed my parents every day, still felt the weight of their absence like a stone in my chest, but I was learning to carry it. I wasn't the same person I'd been before the accident, but I was starting to see that maybe that was okay. Maybe, in time, I could find a way to move forward, to build something new from the ruins of my old life.
I looked out the window at the city below, the streets bustling with life, and took a deep breath. This was my new beginning. And I was ready to face it, one step at a time.