After weeks of silence, her fingers twitched.... just once, barely a flutter, but enough to send the monitors into a frantic, hopeful beep. My heart slammed against my ribs as I leaned closer, watching her hand for any sign it would happen again.
Tadala lay there in the ICU bed at Mwaiwathu Hospital, still deep in the coma that had stolen her away three weeks ago. The doctors called it "medically induced" at first, to give her body a chance to recover from the cascade severe anemia, respiratory failure, the collapse that nearly took her. But when they tried to bring her out, she didn't wake. She just… stayed under, suspended between worlds.
It was traumatic in a way I couldn't explain to anyone. I was the only one showing up every single day, sitting in that plastic chair until the nurses gently told me visiting hours were over. Her family was hours away in the village; her mother couldn't afford the transport more than twice. So, it was just me holding her hand, talking to her about nothing and everything, pretending she could hear me.
I remembered the old Tadala so clearly it hurt. The one who listened without rushing you, who noticed when you were quiet and brought you tea without asking why. Patient, kind to a fault, the girl who carried everyone else's pain and still found room to smile. That Tadala felt like a ghost now, trapped somewhere behind those closed eyes.
"I miss the old you," I whispered, voice cracking as I brushed my thumb across her knuckles. Her body felt too still, too light under the thin blanket like if I let go, she might drift away completely. Tears pricked hot at the corners of my eyes, and I didn't bother fighting them this time.
The door opened softly behind me. A nurse stepped in, checked the monitors, gave me a small, sympathetic smile. "That twitch is a good sign," she said quietly. "Keep talking to her. She knows you're here."
I nodded, swallowing hard, and stayed until they made me leave.
Even with Tadala fighting for every breath, my heart was pulling in two directions—guilt twisting one way, something new and bright tugging the other.
Because somehow, in the middle of all this darkness, I'd gotten Doreen's number.
It happened one evening when I was leaving the hospital, exhausted and hollow. She was at the reception desk again, finishing her shift. I don't know what made me stop, maybe the way she looked up and really saw me, not just another worried face.
"You're here every day," she said softly. "That kind of loyalty… it means something."
I shrugged, too tired to pretend. "She doesn't have anyone else close by."
Doreen studied me for a moment, then slid a small piece of paper across the counter. Her number, written in neat handwriting.
"In case you ever need someone to talk to who isn't wearing scrubs," she said, a gentle smile curving her lips. "Or… if you want company that doesn't involve beeping machines."
I took it like it was something fragile and we started texting that very night. It began lightly: a silly meme from her after a brutal hospital day, a quick "How was your shift?" from me, or me sharing the smallest victories; "Tadala's fingers twitched today. Just once, but it felt like a miracle."
She always replied quickly, her warmth slipping through the screen like a quiet hug.
The messages soon became longer and more meaningful. We'd talk openly about her shifts at work, my lingering memories of Tadala, and the guilt that weighed on me. Before long, voice notes followed—her soft laughter in my ear late at night, my hushed confessions spilling out things I'd never said aloud.
On the night's sleep wouldn't come, one of us would reach out first. A simple "You up?" turned into hours of hushed calls, voices close in the dark, talking until the sky paled.
She never pushed, never judged the time I spent at Tadala's bedside. She just listened. Held space. And in those small, steady moments, something gentle took root not a replacement, not an escape. Just a quiet connection, warm and patient, waiting to see what came next.
Despite all this, guilt still gnawed at me raw and relentless every time I laughed with Doreen, every time my heart raced at the brush of her hand against mine. How could I feel this spark, this alive, when Tadala lay motionless in that ICU bed just kilometers away, tubes snaking into her arms, her chest rising only because machines willed it? It felt like betrayal, chasing warmth while she fought shadows I'd helped cast. But in the quiet after our calls, I wondered if holding on too tight to the past would drown us both.
But maybe that's what hope does it flickers even in the darkest rooms?" I'd think about this every moment when Doreen's face fades.
Instead, I kept showing up for Tadala. I kept talking to her, reading her favorite poems, telling her about the world outside her window. And I let myself hold on to Doreen's light, too.
Because if Tadala ever opened her eyes again, I wanted to be whole enough to deserve the old her the kind, patient girl I missed so fiercely. And if she didn't… I didn't know how to finish that thought yet. But for now, that one twitch of her fingers felt like a promise.
And Doreen's voice on the other end of the line felt like grace.