I wake up to sunlight spilling through the blinds.
Not the harsh, white hospital kind — this light is soft, golden, warm. It hits my blanket in stripes and makes dust motes look like glitter.

The monitor beside me hums in steady rhythm.
Beep.
Beep.
Alive.

For a second I don't know what day it is. My head feels heavy, my chest dull and achy. When I blink the sleep away, I realize the room looks exactly the same — same walls, same machines — but somehow it feels quieter.

I turn my head toward the window. It's morning.
Which means I must've slept the whole day before... and through the night.

That never happens.

Usually I wake up a dozen times — too hot, too cold, too much pain, too many dreams. But now my body feels like it finally gave up and demanded rest.

My gaze shifts to the other side of the room. Calian's sitting on his bed, sketchbook open, pencil moving in slow, thoughtful strokes.

He doesn't notice I'm awake yet. His hair's messy — the sleep-flattened kind that would drive him insane if he knew — and there's a soft crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks... human in a way that makes my chest feel funny.

I shift a little and the blanket slides off my shoulder. When I go to pull it back up, I realize it's tucked — actually tucked — all around me.
That wasn't me.

I blink at it, then glance back at him. He's focused on his sketch, but there's this small, secret smile on his lips.

And it clicks.

He covered me.

My throat tightens. I stare at him for a moment longer, the weight of that tiny act sinking in. No one sees him as soft, but I think maybe softness just hides differently in some people.

I glance down at the plush cat still in my arms — my heavy, floppy guardian — and I whisper into its fur,
"You missed it, Mr. Whiskers. He was sweet."

The monitor keeps its steady song. I close my eyes again, letting that sound settle deep in my chest.

Maybe healing doesn't happen in grand miracles.
Maybe it's just this — small kindnesses that slip in while you're asleep.

The door swings open without a knock — which is never unusual around here, because apparently privacy's just a myth in hospitals.

But when I look up, my jaw actually drops.

"Charlotte?" I blink a few times to make sure I'm not hallucinating. "Wait—are you—?!"

She's standing.

No wheelchair. No IV pole. Just her, in fuzzy pink socks and a hospital gown that's two sizes too big, grinning like she just climbed Mount Everest.

"My legs are strong enough to hold my weight again!" she says, voice bubbling with joy. "They said it's because of all the eating I've been doing."

I gasp so loud it probably sets off the heart monitor. "CHARLOTTE! You're walking!"

"Standing," she corrects, but she's laughing. "Walking's next."

"Oh my god, you're like a miracle! A miracle in pink socks!"

She laughs even harder, stumbling a bit, and Calian immediately moves like he's about to stand — his instincts kicking in — but Charlotte steadies herself before he has to.

"I'm fine, Calian," she teases him. "You don't gotta catch me."

I'm practically vibrating, unable to stay still. "Yara's gonna freak out! We have to tell everyone! Oh—wait, no, you tell them! You deserve the bragging rights! You're standing, Char! You're literally defying gravity!"

Charlotte beams, a little breathless. "It's weird. My legs feel shaky, but they feel like mine again. For the first time in a long time."

I swallow hard, my chest suddenly tight — but not from my heart this time. Just from the kind of happiness that stings a little because it's so pure.

"That's amazing," I whisper.

She looks at me then, softer. "You've been helping me eat, you know. All your dumb jokes and food reviews and the way you make the cafeteria Jell-O sound like a Michelin star dish."

I laugh, blinking fast. "Hey, that Jell-O deserves its moment."

Charlotte walks — walks — the few steps toward my bed, slow but steady. She grips the rail and leans down to hug me, careful not to bump my wires.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

I hug her back, my eyes burning. "Don't thank me. You did this. You saved yourself."

Charlotte's sitting on the edge of my bed now, her legs trembling slightly but holding. Calian's at his sketch table again, half-listening while pretending not to, pencil tapping rhythmically against the paper.

The energy in the room is soft — the kind that comes after laughter, when everyone's just breathing in the quiet.

Charlotte exhales slowly, the sound heavier than usual. "You know," she says, staring at her hands, "when I first came here... I didn't think I'd ever be able to do this again."

I tilt my head. "Walk?"

She nods. "Live."

The air stills a little. Calian's pencil stops moving.

Charlotte laughs, but it's the kind that trembles on the way out. "I was a skeleton when I got here. Like, literally. I could see every rib, every bone. I couldn't even sit up for long without feeling dizzy."

I reach out and gently squeeze her arm. "You still had the best cheekbones, though."

That gets a laugh out of her, small but real. "You're awful."

"I'm helpful," I correct. "Someone had to remind you you were still pretty while you looked like a haunted stick figure."

"Haunted stick figure," she repeats, giggling through the tears forming in her eyes. "You're such an idiot."

"Yup." I grin. "But I'm your idiot."

She wipes her face quickly, sniffing. "You know what's funny? You made it easier. The jokes, the teasing... it made the food less scary somehow. Like it wasn't the enemy anymore. You'd turn pudding into poetry and make mashed potatoes sound like a love confession."

"Food is a love language," I say softly.

Charlotte nods. "You made me laugh when I didn't think I could anymore."

Calian's been quiet this whole time, but I can see him watching her — that steady, careful kind of listening that he does so well.

She glances over at him, still talking. "It's weird, isn't it? How we hurt ourselves without even realizing how far gone we are. I really thought I was gonna die. Sometimes I wanted to."

My chest aches hearing her say it. But her voice doesn't shake. She's strong now — maybe not physically, not yet, but in that soul-deep way that healing starts.

Calian's voice comes in quietly, almost cautious. "What made you stop?"

She looks at him for a long moment. "Eliora," she says simply.

My head snaps toward her. "Me? What did I do?"

Charlotte smiles through her tears. "You lived loudly. You were sick, too — still are — but you never stopped wanting. Food, laughter, company, love. You made me realize I could want things again too. That I deserved to."

I blink fast, trying not to cry. "That's literally the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."

She laughs softly. "Don't get used to it."

Then, quieter: "I'm not better yet. I still hate mirrors some days. I still panic when they bring extra snacks. But... I'm trying. I'm eating. I'm walking. I'm still here."

The silence that follows feels sacred.

Calian finally speaks, voice gentle. "That sounds like healing to me."

Charlotte smiles at him — small, but full of light. "It's something."

And for a moment, none of us talk. We just sit there, three broken bodies sharing the same air, the same fragile hope.

I look at Charlotte — standing on shaky legs, brave and stubborn — and I realize healing isn't a finish line. It's a long, uneven road.
And she's already walking it.