Page 53 of The One Who Changed Everything

"Hey," she murmured, her voice a soft caress against the sterile hum of the hospital room. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her professional composure frayed at the edges. Samantha always had this look about her—like she could handle anything—butright now there was a vulnerability there that I'd never seen before. Not even when Sophia had been in the hospital had she looked so out-of-control.

"Hey yourself," I replied, trying to muster a grin despite the dull ache in my chest. "You look beat." The attempt at humor felt hollow, but it was instinctive, like breathing or reaching out to shield someone from falling debris.

She sobbed a laugh. Or laughed a sob?

She shook her head, swiping her eyes as if she could erase the emotion from her face. "Well, you look like a ceiling fell on top of you."

“Is that what happened?” I took stock of my body, slowly becoming more aware of the throbbing ache in my shoulder, the sting of raw skin along my arm. "Huh. Guess that explains the headache."

Her lips pressed together like she wanted to scold me for making light of it, but something in her expression softened instead. "You could’ve died, Evan."

I knew that. Of course, I knew that. But hearing it in her voice—strained and barely above a whisper—made it feel heavier somehow.

"Yeah," I admitted. "But I didn’t."

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. "You can’t just—just brush that off like it’s nothing."

I tilted my head slightly, taking her in—the way she stood rigid, as if bracing for something, the way her fingers clutched at the hem of her sweater. She wasn’t just upset. She was scared. For me.

"Sam," I said gently. "I’m here. I’m okay."

Her eyes flicked up to mine, searching for something—reassurance, maybe. A promise neither of us could really make.

She exhaled slowly, arms wrapping around herself. "You scared me," she admitted again, quieter this time.

I wanted to reach for her. Wanted to pull her close and promise I’d always come back. But I couldn’t do that. Because we both knew there were no guarantees.

So instead, I just said, "I’m not going anywhere."

And I meant it.

I wanted to say more, to bridge the gap between us with words, but sometimes words just weren't enough.

"Sometimes, I think God's been nudging me in directions I've been too stubborn to follow," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You? Stubborn?”

A ghost of a smile traced her lips. “I know. Hard to believe.”

She let out a soft breath, her fingers smoothing over the edge of my hospital blanket like she needed something to do with her hands. “But I’m serious. I spent so long being angry at you, Evan. At what happened. At what didn’t happen. And now you’re here, and I don’t know what to do with that. It feels like God brought you here, but I don’t know why.”

I swallowed, my throat dry. “You don’t have to know. We can figure it out.”

She huffed a quiet laugh. “See, that’s the thing. You say that like it’s easy. Like all we have to do is try, and everything will fall into place.” Her hands clenched into fists in her lap before she exhaled and forced them open again. “But I have a daughter to think about. And I don’t get the luxury of hoping this works out. I have to know.”

I let her words settle between us before whispering, “Will you ever forgive me?”

“Will you ever forgive yourself?”

Her question hit harder than I expected. Harder than anything her anger or silence had ever done.

I started to look away, but she didn’t let me. Her eyes held mine, steady and unrelenting. There was no accusation in themnow, just something deeper—something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.

“I don’t know how,” I admitted, my voice hoarse. “I’ve spent so long carrying this, I don’t know who I am without it.”

Her expression softened, and she squeezed my hand. “Then maybe it’s time to put it down.”

Put it down. As if it were that simple.

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