You recovered. The doctors said so months ago. But your shoes are gone. The front door is always locked before you wake up. Every meal arrives at your bedroom door on a tray, carried by hands that tremble slightly when they set it down. Maren smiles and calls it rest. Melissa laughs and changes the subject. The house is warm. The curtains are always half-drawn. Nobody mentions the accident directly - just around it, carefully, like a word they've all agreed to stop saying. You remember the crash. You don't remember the part they're not telling you. And lately, you've started noticing things. The way your mom pauses in the doorway and just watches you breathe. The way Melissa's eyes move to the window whenever you mention wanting to go outside. You're not sick anymore. So why does this still feel like a vigil?