I was thirty-three years old, a senior payroll manager, and I had spent most of my adult life believing that being needed was the same thing as being loved.
It is not.
Sometimes being needed only means you are the easiest number in somebody’s phone.
The last thing I remembered before waking up in that bed was the copier room at work.
I had a stack of reports pressed to my chest.
My coworker Jenna called my name from the hallway.
The carpet tilted.
The ceiling came down too fast.
After that, there was nothing.
“How long?” I asked Ethan, though my voice barely made it past my lips.
He squeezed my hand.
“Nine days since you collapsed,” he said. “You were unconscious for most of it.”
Nine days.
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