MELODY
....

The hospital walls feel a little less suffocating today, probably because I know I'm finally getting out of here.

After three days of being poked, prodded, and wheeled around, I'm officially done.

Dr. Richardson even gave me a cheesy smile as he signed my discharge papers. "You'll be walking again before you know it," he said.

Sure, Doc, but not without weeks of limping, pain, and awkward stretches, I bet.

Jeremiah shows up right on time, after his work. Of course, he does. Mr. Perfect Timing has been in his overachiever, caring big brother mode this whole week.

He's been checking in more than he should, making sure everything is in order, but honestly? It's been more annoying than comforting. I haven't even had the energy to yell at him. Yet.

I'm not used to this side of him. The side that excuses him out of a meeting just to call and ask if I've eaten or done my four-hourly leg stretches yet.

The ride to his house is quiet. The kind of quiet that feels like it should be filled with words but isn't. I'm not complaining.

Somehow, I'm learning to understand him. Talking when it's necessary or when he sees fit, and I'm okay with that.

He's tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, humming along to some old R&B song that's playing on the stereo.

I busy myself with staring out the window, watching the city blur by. It's busy, loud, and too much all at once. Every car honks like it's a competition, and pedestrians seem to think they're invincible, jaywalking like it's their full-time job.

Home is four hours away, but it might as well be on another planet.

When we finally pull into the parking garage, Jeremiah hops out to grab my wheelchair like he has done this a bunch of times before.

He's gotten too good at it, and I'm still not sure how I feel about it all. I let him wheel me to the elevator, trying not to wince every time we hit a bump.

The condo itself? It's like something out of a home magazine.

Everything screams sleek and modern, like it belongs in one of those Pinterest boards labeled "dream home."

The walls are painted a soft, dove-gray that somehow manages to feel both calming and expensive. Recessed lighting runs along the ceiling, offering a warm glow that doesn't feel harsh.

The floors are polished wood, dark and glossy enough to catch the light without being slippery.

There's a faint scent of lemon polish lingering in the air, the kind that tells you someone takes excellent care of this place.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the living room, providing a jaw-dropping view of the city skyline.

You can see the distant blur of cars and streetlights far below, and it's all framed by thin white curtains that sway slightly in the breeze from a hidden vent.

It's the kind of place influencers would take mirror selfies in.

The house help called Maria, is already waiting for us. She's petite, maybe in her fifties, with short black hair and a no-nonsense vibe. She greets me with a polite smile before wheeling me around for a tour.

"This is the kitchen," she says, motioning to an open-plan space.

The kitchen is straight out of a cooking show, with pristine white quartz countertops that gleam under the soft light.

Stainless steel appliances line the walls-everything from a fridge that's probably smart enough to text you grocery lists to a built-in espresso machine.

There's even an island in the middle, with sleek bar stools tucked neatly underneath.

"You won't be cooking, but it's here if you need anything."

Next is the living room, a massive L-shaped couch takes up most of the space. It's upholstered in a rich charcoal fabric that looks firm but inviting, the kind of couch you want to sink into after a long day.

A glass coffee table sits in front of it, minimalist in design, with a single stack of glossy coffee table books and a decorative ceramic bowl that holds nothing but the aesthetic high ground.

Then the guest bedroom-my room for now. It's simple but nice, with a big bed, fluffy pillows, and blackout curtains. There's even a little balcony and my own TV.

Maria leaves me to settle in, and I flop onto the bed. Or, well, carefully position myself on the bed because my knee still feels like it's wrapped in cement.

I scroll through my phone, checking messages from Jess and Marco. They've been texting me nonstop, which is sweet but also a constant reminder that I'm not there with them.

Jess sent me a selfie earlier, making a stupid face in front of our locker at school. I couldn't decide if it made me laugh or cry. Maybe both.

The homesickness hits harder in the evening.

It's quiet here-eerily so. Back home, there's always some kind of background noise: Marco shouting at the TV, Mom banging pots around in the kitchen. Here, it's just me, Maria left an hour ago.

By the time Jeremiah comes back, it's already dark. He walks in carrying two takeout bags, and the smell of burgers and fries fills the air.

They're from that retro place and I wonder how he figured that I fell in love with the fries.

"Figured you'd be hungry," he says, setting the bags on the kitchen counter.

"I am," I admit, wheeling myself over.

We eat in the living room, the giant TV playing some random reality show in the background. It's almost...nice. Almost.

Then Jeremiah drops the bombshell.

"So," he starts, between bites, "I found you a physiotherapist."

I pause mid-fry. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah, my girlfriend's best friend has a little sister who's studying physiotherapy. She's apparently really good, so I thought she'd be a good fit for you."

I raise an eyebrow. "Little sister? How little are we talking? Like, is she even qualified?"

My mind doesn't even register that Jeremiah had a girlfriend!

"She's twenty-two, I think," he says, rolling his eyes. "And yes, she's qualified. Trust me, Mel, I wouldn't hire someone who didn't know what they were doing."

"Alright," I say slowly, still skeptical. But honestly? I'm eager to meet this person. The sooner I start physio, the sooner I get better, and the sooner I can get back to my life.

Later, in bed, I post a quick update on my Instagram.

Meeting my physio person tomorrow. PS: They're not the hot, brooding, sweep-me-off-my-feet type of guy. 😐
#stillsoulmateless.

Jess: "Please don't scare this poor physio off before they even meet you. 😑"

Marco: "This is why you're still single, Balls 🤣"

Random teammate: "As long as they can get you back on the court, they're a 10/10. 🏐💯"

I smile.

But random teammate is right, it does not matter who shows up, as long as they get me back my leg, I'm game.

And I can't wait for tomorrow.