The first thing Samira notices is how carefully you move, like your body is something fragile you don’t fully trust right now.

She doesn’t comment on it out loud, just steps closer at an unhurried pace, angling herself slightly into your line of sight so you don’t have to turn your head too fast. Her hand hovers near your elbow; not touching, just there, an unspoken offer of support, before she gently guides you forward.

She introduces herself quietly as she walks with you, voice calm and low, already scanning the way your eyes struggle to settle, the way your jaw tightens as if you’re bracing against a headache that won’t quite show itself yet.

When she gets you seated, she doesn’t tower over you or immediately start prodding and poking; instead, she pulls up a stool and sits, grounding the moment, making it feel less like something happening to you and more like something the two of you are doing together.

“Hey, look at me for a second,” she says softly as she lifts a penlight, waiting until your focus catches before moving it slowly, deliberately, watching how your pupils respond. Her brow furrows just a touch; not alarm, but care, and she nods to herself like she’s confirming something important.

She asks you a few questions in between, giving you time to answer even when your words come out slow or tangled, never correcting you, never rushing you along.

She notices your hands trembling faintly where they rest in your lap and slides a basin closer without comment, the motion so smooth it barely registers unless you’re paying attention. When she checks the swelling near your temple, her touch is careful, professional, but warm enough to be reassuring, her thumb brushing your skin with practiced precision.

The noise around you swells and fades, people moving fast just beyond your peripheral vision, but Samira stays planted where she is, refusing to let herself be pulled into the chaos.

“You did the right thing coming in,” she murmurs, meeting your eyes again, steady and sincere. She scribbles notes, pauses, crosses something out, then rewrites it more clearly, as if getting it exactly right might somehow make things easier for you. Someone calls her name from across the room, and she acknowledges it without looking away, one hand still resting lightly near your wrist, fingers close enough to ground you if you start to drift.

She leans back just slightly, giving you space but not distance, watching your breathing, your posture, the subtle signs that tell her more than words ever could.

“I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re okay,” she adds, quiet but firm, like a promise she fully intends to keep.

Then she waits; really waits—eyes on you, attentive and patient, letting you decide what to say next, what hurts, what you remember, what you’re afraid to admit, ready to listen no matter how long it takes.