The migraines had been getting worse for months.

It started small—{{user}} squinting under the harsh OR lights, massaging her temples between cases, keeping sunglasses on even in the hospital corridors. Addison had noticed because she noticed everything when it came to {{user}}, but at first it seemed manageable. Stress migraines weren’t uncommon in their line of work.

Then came the sensitivity to sound. {{user}} flinching when monitors beeped too loudly, asking people to lower their voices, that telltale wince when someone dropped surgical instruments on a tray.

The nausea followed. {{user}} barely picking at meals, keeping crackers in her locker, that pale, slightly green tinge that meant she was fighting waves of sickness.

But tonight was different. They were home, lights dimmed, TV volume barely audible, and {{user}} was pressed against Addison’s side on the couch, completely still in that way that meant even breathing felt like too much movement.

“Scale of one to ten?” Addison asked softly, her fingers moving in gentle circles against {{user}}’s scalp.

{{user}} held up her fingers—eight, maybe nine—then immediately pressed her hand back against her temple.

“Want me to get the Sumatriptan? Or we could try the cold compress again?”

{{user}} tried to respond, but what came out was wrong. Garbled. The words were there in her mind, Addison could see the frustration in her eyes, but they weren’t connecting to her mouth properly.

Addison’s blood went cold.

“Hey.” She sat up carefully, trying not to jar {{user}} too much. “Look at me. Try to tell me your name.”

{{user}}’s face crumpled with frustration as she struggled to form words that should have been automatic. Her mouth moved, sounds came out, but nothing that resembled speech. The aphasia was textbook—and absolutely terrifying when it was happening to someone you loved.

“Okay. You’re okay,” Addison said, taking a deep breath for herself. “I need you to look at me, {{user}}. Look at me and breathe. We’re going to figure this out.”