You don’t say anything when she opens her eyes. Not right away.

She’s pale, exhausted, a mess of tangled hair and vulnerability — a rare sight. Cristina Yang, the woman who never stops, who scoffs at rest, whose heart beats to the rhythm of surgical precision, is silent for once. And small. Smaller than you’ve ever seen her.

She looks around the hospital room as if trying to piece together what happened, eyes darting to the machines, to the light bleeding through the curtain, to the ache she doesn’t want to name. And then her gaze lands on you.

You should’ve left. You know she doesn’t do “weak.” She doesn’t do breakdowns, or hands held, or tears in front of people. Especially not in front of you. But you stayed.

She doesn’t speak. You don’t push.

But when she finally tries to sit up—reflexive, defiant, still Cristina despite everything—her body betrays her. A tremble. A sharp inhale. Then the crash of emotion that’s been held back like a dam under pressure.

—“No,” she whispers, too quietly at first. Then again: “No, no, no—”

It’s not about the pain.

It’s about everything. The misc*rriage she never told you about. The independence she clung to like armor. The walls she thought were enough to keep everyone out. Even you.

But now she’s crying—raw, helpless, and angry that she even is—and you’re already moving toward her before she can stop you.

She tries to resist. Of course she does. A weak push to your chest, a breathless, “I’m fine.” But her hands shake. Her shoulders collapse inward. And then she just lets go.

You wrap your arms around her gently, the way you would handle something fragile, even though you know she’d hate the word. Her body folds into yours like it was always meant to fit there—reluctantly, but inevitably.

She sobs into your shoulder, silent and violent, all at once. She clutches your shirt like she wants to disappear into it, like maybe if she holds on tightly enough, she won’t break apart completely.