Home.
It tastes strange on my tongue—like something I used to know but can no longer place. My gaze drops to my lap, hands motionless around the brush.
Home used to mean Braden. Mom. Dad.
It used to mean chaos and comfort, laughter and music, the smell of fresh-baked bread or ocean-breeze candles. My dad’s occasional sneaky cigars—how we’d pretend not to notice the way the smoke clung to him, tangled in his beard, his clothes, the faint dusting of ash he never seemed to see.
Now?
Now, home feels foreign. Like something unfamiliar and daunting.
I’m not even sure I know what that word means anymore.
“Th-thank you,” I murmur, voice brittle.
Dr. Hamid nods, warm and reassuring. “We’ll schedule a final consult this afternoon. If everything checks out, we’ll discharge you tomorrow morning.” He stands, pausing at the door. “You’ve come so far, Mackayla. I hope you know how proud you should be.”
I give a small nod, manage a practiced smile. Then he’s gone—the door clicking quietly shut behind him—and I’m alone again.
The brush moves through my hair, slow and mechanical, but the motion feels disconnected. Like I’m watching someone else do it. Like I’m trying to reach a version of me that isn’t there anymore.
Go home.
But what does that mean now?
Can I go back to the place I used to be? To the girl I was before the accident? Before Braden died? Before I erased eight years of my own life?
Will Logan want to come with me?
The thought hits like a punch to the ribs.
Would he?
Could I even ask that of him?
He has a life. A tour. A future that’s still moving forward, while mine feels like it’s been frozen in amber,—paused, rewound, fractured.
I blink fast, but the sting behind my eyes lingers. The silence in the room wraps around me, thick with questions and no easy answers.
Then the door opens.
His scent reaches me first—clean soap, worn leather, a hint of sandalwood—and my breath catches. My hand stills.
“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping into the room like he can sense the shift in the air.
I don’t turn. Not yet.
“Hey,” I echo, my voice catching on the word.
The silence between us stretches—not awkward, just full. Full of everything I can’t seem to say.
He moves closer. I see him now, reflected in the mirror—blue eyes locked on mine, searching.
“They said I can go home,” I tell him.
He stills behind me.
“They said I’m healing. That I’m doing well enough to… leave.”
