I met Colton in high school. He was my very first love — not fireworks exactly, not some grand gesture. Simply this quiet, steady feeling instead. Like coming home. We were seniors, thoroughly in love, and genuinely convinced we were untouchable together. We also believed the future stretched out ahead of us full of wonderful opportunities, having absolutely no real idea yet how difficult life could actually become.
Then, a week before Christmas, everything turned chaotic all at once.
He’d been driving to his grandparents’ house on a snowy night. Or at least, that’s precisely what I believed for fifteen straight years.
The call came through while I sat on my bedroom floor, wrapping presents. His mother was screaming into the phone, and I only caught a scattered few words. Accident. Truck. He can’t feel his legs.
The hospital sat harsh with fluorescent lights and stale, recycled air. He lay there in a bed lined with rails and wires, a neck brace fitted tight, machines beeping steadily nearby. His eyes stayed open, at least. “I’m here,” I told him, grabbing his hand tight. “I’m not going anywhere.”
