I never thought I would see Marcus again.
When I was seventeen, a drunk driver ran a red light—and in an instant, everything changed. Six months before prom, my biggest concerns had been curfews, dresses, and whether my friends liked the same songs I did. Then suddenly, I was waking up in a hospital bed, listening to doctors talk around me as if I weren’t even there.
My legs had been broken in three places. My spine was damaged. Words like rehab, prognosis, and maybe floated through the room like something abstract and distant.
Before the crash, my life had been ordinary in the best possible way. I worried about grades. I worried about boys. I worried about how I’d look in prom pictures.
Afterward, I worried about being seen at all.

By the time prom approached, I told my mom I wasn’t going.
She stood in my doorway, holding the dress bag, and said gently, “You deserve one night.”
“I deserve not to be stared at.”
“Then stare back.”
“I can’t dance.”
She stepped closer, her voice soft but steady. “You can still exist in a room.”
That hurt more than I expected, because she was right. Since the accident, I had been perfecting the art of disappearing while still technically being present.