Threading The Needle

The hospital was cold, the air sharp and sterile, but nothing matched the coldness in my chest. My hand lay cradled against me, fingers stiff beneath the gauze. The doctors' words echoed in my ears like a death knell: "Three severed tendons. Nerve damage is possible. It'll take months to heal—if it ever fully does."

The thought of never holding a pencil or cutting fabric with precision again made my stomach churn. But it wasn't just my hand that hurt. My pride burned hotter.

I wasn't a quitter. Not now. Not ever.