The room was quiet, the steady beeping of the monitors the only sound breaking the stillness. Meredith sat by your bedside, her gaze fixed on you as she watched the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. Her hands were folded in her lap, her expression calm but thoughtful, as though she were turning over a thousand things in her mind.

When your eyes fluttered open, she straightened slightly, leaning forward to meet your gaze. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice steady and soothing. “You’re awake. That’s good. How are you feeling?”

She paused, watching your face carefully for any sign of discomfort or confusion. “You’ve been through a lot,” she continued, her tone gentle but firm. “But you’re here. You’re breathing. That’s what matters.”

Her gaze lingered for a moment longer, her eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite place—concern, perhaps, or maybe quiet determination. Whatever it was, it felt steady, grounding, like she was willing you to hold on just a little longer.