Talia's POV
White light. Beeping. Pain.
I woke to the steady rhythm of machines, each beep slicing through the fog in my head like a dull blade. My body felt heavy, pinned down by invisible weights, every breath pulling against bruised ribs and something deeper that throbbed low in my abdomen. The sheets were stiff against my skin, the air thick with antiseptic and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. A doctor stood at the foot of the bed, young and handsome in a way that seemed out of place in the sterile room, his tired eyes holding something familiar, like a half-remembered face from a crowd. He watched me with a mix of relief and caution, clipboard in hand.
"You're awake. Good. You gave us quite a scare."
I tried to speak, but my throat was raw, the words scraping out as nothing more than a dry rasp. My tongue felt thick, coated in something metallic.
"Don't try to talk yet," he said, stepping closer. "You've been unconscious for two days." He checked the monitors, adjusting a line taped to my arm. "I'm Dr. Chen. I found your emergency contact list in your phone. We called your husband. Your brothers. No one came."
I closed my eyes. Of course they didn't. The truth settled like another layer of ache, heavier than the bruises blooming across my skin. Two days gone, and the people I had once called family had left me here, machines breathing for me while they moved on with their lives. The beeping continued, steady and indifferent, marking time I couldn't get back.
A brief flash pulled me under, uninvited. Five years ago, a different hospital, the sharp scent of the same disinfectant filling the air as my mother lay in a narrow bed, her hand cold in mine. Marcus and Elliot had stood on either side, holding my hands, their voices low and steady. "We're family," they had said. "We'll always be here." Elliot had squeezed my fingers when the monitors flatlined, Marcus pulling me into a hug that smelled of aftershave and false promises. I had believed them then, the way I believed everything back before the lies stacked too high. Now that memory twisted, turning their words into echoes of the same betrayal that had left me alone in this bed.
Dr. Chen pulled up a chair, the legs scraping softly against the linoleum. "You had internal bleeding. We did emergency surgery. You'll recover physically. But..." He hesitated, his eyes meeting mine with a gentleness that made the cold in my chest spread faster.
"But what?" The words came out hoarse, barely above a whisper, but I forced them through the dryness.
He met my eyes fully, no evasion left. "You were pregnant. I'm sorry. We couldn't save the baby."
The words hung in the air like smoke, thick and choking. I stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the small perforations as if they could anchor me. I hadn't known. Or had I? The tiredness that had dragged at my limbs for weeks, the sudden waves of emotion that made simple meals feel overwhelming, the way my body had felt off-kilter even before the rain and the accident. I had chalked it all up to stress, to the slow unraveling of a life built on sand. A baby. Damien's baby. Gone now, taken in the impact and the surgery that followed, leaving only this hollow space inside me where something new had started to grow.
I didn't cry. The tears wouldn't come, not after everything. Something inside had gone cold, a frost spreading from my chest outward, numbing the edges of the pain until it felt distant, like a story happening to someone else. I asked for my phone, my voice cracking on the request. Dr. Chen nodded and handed it over without argument, the screen still cracked from the fall but functional enough.
Social media pulled me in like a current. Bianca's profile was new, fresh, public in a way that screamed of reclaimed territory. Photos from the past two days filled the feed. A brunch, sunlight slanting across a table set with pastries and coffee, the caption reading "Reunited with my favorite brothers." Marcus and Elliot smiled in the frame, their arms around her, faces open and relaxed in a way they never were around me. Another photo, a dinner that night, the caption "Home at last. With the man who never stopped waiting." Damien sat there with his arm around Bianca, his smile the one he used to aim at me in the early days, the slow curve that made the room feel smaller. They leaned into each other, glasses raised, the table cluttered with the remnants of a meal I would have cooked if things had been different.
I zoomed in on Damien's face, studying it like a text I needed to translate. The lines around his eyes crinkled with real happiness, the kind that reached deep and stayed there. While I lay in this hospital bed, our baby dead inside me before it could even begin, he was having dinner with my sister. The coldness spread from my chest to my limbs, to my fingertips, turning everything numb. I wasn't sad. Sadness would have been a relief, something warm and human to hold onto. This was something worse, a flat emptiness that settled like ice over every memory of the last five years. I had been the placeholder, the one who filled the space until Bianca returned, and now even the child I hadn't known I carried was gone, another loss they wouldn't mourn.
The coldness inside me deepened, spreading from my chest through my ribs and down into my legs, making the blankets feel like nothing more than thin paper. I shifted slightly in the bed, wincing as the movement pulled at the stitches I couldn't see but could feel pulling taut beneath the bandages. My body was a map of damage now: the impact from the car had left bruises blooming purple and black across my hips and thighs, the surgery had taken what little remained of the pregnancy I hadn't even known existed, and the two days of unconsciousness had left my mouth dry and my head pounding with a steady rhythm that synced to the beeping machines.
The baby. The thought looped back, sharp and insistent. I hadn't felt any different, or at least not in a way that stood out from the constant low-level dread of the past few weeks. Tired, yes, but that came from the long hours at work and the nights spent waiting for Damien to come home. Now it was gone, a life that had started without my notice and ended without my consent, taken in the blur of headlights and the chaos of the operating room.
I placed a hand over my stomach, feeling the bandages through the thin gown, the skin beneath tender and swollen. No tears came, just that spreading frost that numbed the edges of what should have been grief. Instead, there was only the calculation of loss, the tally of everything I had given and everything that had been taken in return. Five years of my life reduced to this hospital bed, these machines, and a phone full of proof that the family I thought I had was an illusion crafted by people who chose her every time.
The door clicked softly, and Dr. Chen returned, his footsteps quiet on the linoleum. He carried a small cup of water and set it on the tray beside me. "There's someone here to see you," he said, his voice low and measured. "He's been here every day since the accident. Waiting."
I looked past him toward the doorway. A man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that had a few streaks of gray at the temples now. His eyes held mine across the room, familiar in a way that cut through the fog of pain and medication. It was Ethan, the man from years ago, before Damien, from the time when I still thought the world held possibilities beyond the ones I had settled for. He had been the one who offered steady presence without demands. We had drifted apart when I moved in with Damien, the pull of that new relationship too strong to resist, but seeing him now brought a flicker of something warm against the ice.
He stepped forward, his hands in his pockets, his expression a mix of concern and quiet recognition. "Hello, Talia."
