During Her Absence

The first few days after the accident, Arabella tried to act like everything was fine. She cracked jokes to her dads, played with her sticker collection, and watched cartoons in bed with a smile glued to her face.

But by the time the bandages came off, and she saw herself in the mirror for the first time—the empty, cloudy blur where her bright golden eye used to be—something inside her shifted.

She didn't want to get out of bed anymore.

The eyepatch her dads had bought her sat untouched on the nightstand, along with her favorite orange shirt and the little box of star stickers she used to carry everywhere.

When her dads tried to talk to her, she just mumbled that she was tired. They were patient, always gentle, never pushing—but she could feel their worry hanging heavy in the air.

Late at night, Arabella would bury herself under the blankets, eyes squeezed shut, trying not to cry.

It was so stupid. She was alive. People had way worse things happen to them all the time. She told herself that over and over—out loud sometimes, like if she said it enough, it would make the sadness go away.

But the truth was... she felt broken.