103. IT WAS WHITNEY

KATERINA

I never want to relive the past few days ever again.

The second day after I woke up, it still didn’t feel real. I lay there, staring at the sterile white ceiling, trying to make sense of everything. My body felt heavy, like it wasn’t mine, weighed down by the layers of pain and exhaustion. The dull ache in my side was constant, pulsing in time with my heartbeat, though it was nowhere near as sharp as before. Still, every small movement reminded me it was there, a deep soreness under the layers of bandages that wrapped tightly around my stomach.

I shifted slightly in bed, wincing as a wave of discomfort rolled through me. My muscles felt weak, stiff from lying still for days, and I had to fight to keep the panic at bay when my breath hitched from the tightness in my chest. Even breathing was strange—each inhale shallow, like my lungs didn’t trust themselves to fully expand, afraid they might tear something loose.

I couldn’t stop thinking about how close I had come. The though