Page 57 of Third Strike Smitten

Me

You’re right. I should probably try. Thanks for the help, Haynes.

Killian

Anytime, Coach. Oh, and Isla?

Me

Yeah?

Killian

Whatever you write, it’ll be good. Just be honest. That’s what people need to hear. And honesty is one of your biggest strengths.

Me

Says the guy asking me to lie to the world and pretend to be in love with him.

Killian

Gotta get my kicks somehow, eh? Now get to work.

I set my phone down and stare at the blank document. Killian’s words echo in my mind: Surviving isn’t the same as living. He’s right and that’s something I’ve been afraid to acknowledge.

Taking a deep breath, I start typing again.

Good evening. My name is Isla Fallon, and eight years ago, I died for thirty-seven seconds.

I stop, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. It’s not the polished, inspirational opening I imagined, but it’s honest. It’s real. And maybe that’s enough.

The doctors told me I was lucky. My family told me I was brave. Strangers told me I was strong. But the truth is…

The truth is that for a long time after, I wasn’t any of those things. Not lucky, not brave, not strong. I was just...there. Existing in a body that didn’t feel like mine anymore, learning to walk in a body that kept betraying me, smiling at nurses and physical therapists and well-meaning strangers because my mother taught me to be kind and well, it was easier than admitting I was terrified. I stare at the words on my screen, my heart pounding as I continue to type away for the next twenty minutes without stopping. My words are raw and vulnerable and completely unlike the polished speech I imagined giving. But what I’ve written…it just feels right.

When I finally stop typing, my eyes sting with unshed tears. I’ve written about the darkness, the fear, the isolation of recovery. I’ve written about the moment I realized I was still alive, not because of some grand epiphany, but because a nurse named Heather told me I had to pee in a bedpan and I was too embarrassed to die on her watch. I’ve written about losing my dad and the crushing pain and helplessness that comes with that. But I’ve also written about hope. Not the shiny, Instagram-ready kind, but the messy, complicated kind that shows up when you least expect it. The kind that comes from a stranger holding a door open when your leg gives out. The kind that comes from learning to laugh at yourself when you trip over nothing in the middle of a grocery store.

I save the document and lean back in my chair, a strange mix of exhaustion and exhilaration washing over me. The words on my screen are messy but completely authentic; everything I’ve been afraid to put down on paper. But Killian’s advice was right. Honesty is what people need to hear.

My phone buzzes again, and I smile when I see his name.

Killian

So? Did you write a speech worthy of an award or are you still staring at a blank page?

Me

I wrote something. And no matter what anyone might say, it’s something…real. So, thank you.

Killian

See? I told you. You’re welcome.

Me

Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still adequate at best.

Killian