When He Opened His Eyes

>>>***Inspired by something I saw in the eyes of a stranger once.***

We were laughing. That’s what I remember first. Not the screech of tires or the shatter of glass—just the sound of Jackson’s laugh echoing through the cab of his beat-up blue Tacoma, windows down, late summer air breezing in.

We’d gone to that indie film festival downtown. Got ice cream after. Nothing fancy. Just us being us. He told me I had mint chip on my nose and then kissed it off, like he always did.

And then, headlights.

It didn’t make sense—how fast they came. Or why they weren’t stopping.

The next thing I knew, I was on my side, the world upside down and twisted. My neck ached. My wrist was bent at an angle that made me nauseous. I blinked, trying to focus. Where was Jackson?

“Jackson?” My voice came out dry and weak.

No answer.

“Jackson!”

I saw his face slumped against the window, blood smeared across his temple, his glasses cracked. Panic surged through me, hotter than pain. I tried to move, but my body screamed in protest.

“Please,” I whispered, not even sure who I was begging.

The paramedics came. I remember them yelling over each other. Cutting my seatbelt. The crunch of boots on glass. One of them kept saying, “Stay with me, sweetheart.” But I wasn’t listening. I kept my eyes on Jackson.

His fingers twitched once. That gave me enough hope to survive the pain.

It was five days before he woke up.

Five long, sterile days. The doctors weren’t sure if he’d make it through the night. Or the next. Traumatic brain injury. Severe lung contusions. Shattered ribs. Internal bleeding. Words no 27-year-old is ready to hear about the man she planned to grow old with.

I never left his side.

Even when his mom came and tried to gently push me to rest, I wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t. Not after the last thing I said to him before we left that night was, “You better not die before me, you jerk. I’d never survive it.”

Now, I wasn’t sure if he even remembered who I was.

He opened his eyes at 2:17am on a Tuesday. The nurse had just stepped out. I was curled up in the hard armchair, drifting between numbness and exhaustion, when I heard him croak out, “Lena?”

My heart nearly stopped.

I was by his side in seconds. His eyes were glassy, confused—but they were looking at me. Really looking at me.

“I’m here,” I whispered, pressing his hand to my cheek.

He couldn’t say much. But his fingers curled weakly around mine.

That was enough.

They said he may never walk again. That even basic movement would be a challenge. That he’d need full-time care, months—maybe years—of therapy, and endless patience.

But no one talked about what I needed.

I didn’t need an explanation. Or justice for the drunk driver. Or even for Jackson to be the same.

I just needed him.

Even broken. Even quiet. Even if he never danced with me again in the kitchen to the crackling sound of our old record player. Even if he never lifted me off the ground with his goofy bear hugs.

I needed his presence. The soul behind those eyes. The way he once told me that love isn’t proven when things are perfect, but when you’re both walking through fire—and still holding hands.

I’ve never let go.

It’s been eight months. He still struggles with speech, though he’s gotten stronger every week. His legs—once limp—can now bear the weight of him standing, even if only for minutes at a time.

The first time he said “I love you” again, it was after a particularly frustrating physical therapy session. He had cried. I had cried. And then, as I wiped his tears away, he managed the words—his voice raspy, but the meaning thunderous.

I cried for three hours straight.

He still calls me “mint chip,” like he always did.

And every night, before we sleep, he whispers the same thing:

“You stayed.”

And I always answer: “Forever.”

📝 Author’s Note:

This story poured from a deep place. While fictional, it’s stitched together from the raw emotions of what it means to love someone through trauma—when life flips you upside down and you have to fight like hell just to remember why you held on in the first place. If you’ve ever faced the impossible with someone you love and chose to stay, this story is for you. You are the definition of strength.

💖 Support Me:

If this story touched your heart, I’d be honored if you left a heart, a comment, or shared it with someone who needs a little reminder that love endures—even when everything else breaks.

Thank you for reading.

~ Muhammad Abdullah ✨