My vision tunneled. The room closed in. But before the darkness took everything—before pain swallowed sound and light—I held on to one certainty like a lifeline: the message had gone through, and whatever came next would change everything.
I returned to the world in pieces. First sound—high and sharp, ringing through my skull like a drill—then light, white and relentless, flashing behind my eyelids. My body felt split down the middle, every nerve screaming as if it had been pulled too tight and left there. I tried to move and pain answered immediately.
“She’s waking up,” a calm, professional voice said.
I forced my eyes open. The ceiling was too close, too bright—plastic panels, metal rails—and the air smelled like antiseptic and rubber. An ambulance. Someone was squeezing my hand, hard enough to anchor me.
“I’m here,” a familiar voice said, rough at the edges. “It’s over.”
I turned my head slowly and saw Alex. His eyes were red, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped beneath the skin, and he held my hand like he was terrified I’d disappear if he let go. Tears blurred my vision. “The baby…?” I whispered, the word scraping my throat raw.