was seventeen, living alone in a shoebox apartment because my parents decided they’d had enough of me and the universe apparently agreed. Life was simple: wake up, eat cereal straight from the box, go to school, come home, repeat. The only thing exciting about my life was whether the hot water would work in the morning.

Then came The Incident.

I was on my way to grab some instant ramen from the corner store—yes, my diet was a cry for help—when WHAM! Headlights, screeching tires, and then… nothing.

Fast-forward to now.

I opened my eyes to the blinding white of a hospital ceiling. The air smelled like antiseptic and sadness. My head felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it, and honestly, that might have been an improvement.