The hospital was all harsh lights and stale air.

He lay there in a bed with rails and wires. Neck brace. Machines beeping. His eyes were open, though.

“I’m here,” I told him, grabbing his hand. “I’m not leaving.”

The doctor pulled his parents and me aside.

“Spinal cord injury,” he said. “Paralysis from the waist down. We don’t expect recovery.”

His mom sobbed. His dad stared at the floor.

I went home numb.

My parents were waiting at the kitchen table like they were about to negotiate a plea deal.

“Sit,” my mom said.

I sat.

“He was in an accident,” I said. “He can’t walk. I’m going to be at the hospital as much as—”

“This is not what you need,” she cut in.

I blinked. “What?”

“You are 17,” she said. “You have a real future. Law school. A career. You cannot tie yourself to… this.”

“To what?” I snapped. “To my boyfriend who just got paralyzed?”

My dad leaned forward.

“You’re young,” he said. “You can find someone healthy. Successful. Don’t ruin your life.”

I laughed because I thought they had to be joking.