Every morning, the therapists wheeled me into the rehab center. Parallel bars gleamed under the overhead lights, mats were laid out like battlefields, and mirrors reflected faces that carried equal parts determination and despair. I was among them. A soldier in a war I had never volunteered to fight.
The left side of my body still refused to obey me. My arm dangled, sluggish, my leg dragged, and even though my tongue had learned to form words again, speaking drained me like climbing a mountain barefoot.
Yet… Ann's smile. That was my oxygen. She came every morning before her classes, her dupatta often slipping in her haste, her eyes tired but luminous. She never let me feel abandoned.
Still, I couldn't shake the thought that my brokenness chained her.
Today, the therapist, a wiry man named Dr. Shane, set me at the parallel bars. "Dennis, today we push further. One step. Then another. Don't look at the end of the room. Look only at what's in front of you."
I nodded, sweat already trickling before I had moved. My right hand gripped the cold bar, my left hand useless except for Ann's warm palm supporting it. Her fingers pressed lightly, as if whispering, I'm here.
"One step," Dr. Shane said.
I dragged my left foot forward. My body tilted, threatening collapse, but Jacob stood behind, ready to catch me.
"Come on, cousin," Jacob urged. "Think of this as learning dance steps. You always had two left feet anyway."
I almost laughed. Almost. But my breath was ragged.
Another step. Pain flared through my leg. My chest heaved. For a moment, I wanted to let go, to sink back into the chair and close my eyes.
But Ann's voice cut through the fog. Soft but fierce. "Dennis… every inch you move is one inch closer to our future. Don't stop."
So I didn't. I reached the middle of the bars before my body screamed enough, collapsing into the chair like a broken puppet. My vision blurred with tears — not only from pain, but humiliation.
I hated being seen like this. Weak. Dependent. Less than a man.
Ann knelt beside me, wiping sweat from my forehead with her handkerchief. She didn't speak. Just looked into my eyes with a love that was both balm and wound.
Every step Dennis took felt like a miracle, yet every wince carved itself into me. His frustration seeped through even when he tried to hide it.
After therapy, I escorted him back to the ward. He slumped in his chair, avoiding my gaze.
"Don't look at me like that, Ann," he muttered. "Like I'm fragile. Like I'll break if you touch me wrong."
My throat tightened. "Dennis, I'm looking at you like you're the bravest man I know."
He laughed bitterly. "Brave? I can't even button my own shirt without help. You should be writing lectures and living your life, not babysitting me."
I stopped walking and knelt in front of him. The corridor bustled around us — nurses, visitors, stretchers — but I didn't care.
"Dennis, listen to me," I said firmly. "I am living my life. And it's with you. Whether you're running marathons or struggling to hold a spoon, you're still my Dennis."
His lips trembled, though he quickly looked away. "You deserve more."
"I deserve the man I love," I whispered.
For a moment, silence cocooned us. Then Jacob appeared, juggling a packet of biscuits and two juice boxes. "I swear, you two have enough drama to outdo Bollywood. At least let me play background music when you have these dialogues."
Dennis chuckled despite himself, and I exhaled in relief. Even laughter was progress.
Days blurred into a rhythm: therapy, rest, Ann's visits, endless encouragement from family. But one evening changed everything.
Roy walked in.
He wasn't carrying flowers or sympathy, just a notebook and a calm presence. "Mind if I sit?" he asked.
I nodded, wary but curious.
"I've seen Ann at work," Roy began. "She's brilliant. Her students adore her. But you know what she talks about most, even between lectures?"
I raised a brow.
"You," Roy said simply. "She tells us about your courage, your stubbornness, your jokes with Jacob. She lights up when she speaks your name."
My throat constricted.
Roy leaned forward. "I know you think you're holding her back. But you're not. You're the reason she shines. Don't rob her of that by doubting yourself."
I swallowed hard. This man had no reason to motivate me, yet his words pierced. For the first time, I wondered if maybe my worth wasn't measured only in steps or strength, but in the way Ann saw me.
When Roy left, Ann entered, her face flushed from rushing. I looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, I allowed myself to imagine a horizon beyond the bars of rehab.
"Ann," I whispered, voice thick.
"Yes?"
"I want to set a goal."
She leaned closer, eyes wide with hope. "Tell me."
I lifted my trembling hand. "I want… to write your name. With this hand. Even if it takes months."
Her tears spilled instantly, but her smile was radiant. "Then that will be our journey."
That night, as I tucked him into bed, he whispered something that sent warmth blooming in my chest.
"Ann… for the first time since all this began, I believe I can give you more than pain. I believe I can fight."
I kissed his forehead gently. "You don't need to give me more, Dennis. Just give me you."
As the monitors hummed softly and his breathing steadied into sleep, I knew the road ahead would be long and cruel. But now, hope was no longer fragile. It was alive. It was ours.