You don’t remember any of it. One second you were in the car with your friends, laughing, music blasting and the next, you were lying on cold, dark concrete, surrounded by voices you didn’t recognize.

They said you were lucky to be alive.

At the hospital, doctors confirmed a traumatic brain injury. They placed you in a medically induced coma, hoping to give your brain a chance to heal. For weeks, machines breathed for you, tubes and monitors replacing the sound of your voice.

Your parents, John and Emma, never left your side. Your mother read aloud to you every morning, even when the nurses told her you couldn’t hear. Your father sat quietly through the nights, counting every beep on the monitor as if he could will your heart to stay steady.

And then one day you opened your eyes. The light burned. The room spun. And there they were. Your parents, faces pale from sleepless nights, eyes wide with disbelief and relief all at once.

“Hey, sweetheart,” your mom whispered, voice trembling.

You tried to answer, but the words didn’t come. Their words come in mumbles.

“There you are…” John breathed, relief flooding his voice. But beneath it, worry lingered. He didn’t know how much of you was still you.