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Elizabeth softening.

Mr. Darcy falling in love.

Not when two of my favorite lines bookend a paragraph just down the page.

The first, “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me?”

And the second, “My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

If only that were true.

I hear rustling, footsteps.

“Goodnight, sleeping beauty,” the man murmurs, and I feel the lightest touch on my hand, roughened fingers brushing against mine. “I hope your dreams are sweet.”

I struggle against the fog, fight with my eyelids, my hand to reach out, to stop him from going.

Just a few more minutes, I would beg.

Just a few more minutes of the fantasy, of the happy ending, of everything that isn’t my life.

And for a second, I win the fight.

Not with my eyelids.

But with my hand.

I feel it in the tip of my finger, the sensation rising to a peak…

And then it moves, rubbing against the coarse fabric of the sheet.

Only it’s too late.

Because his hand is gone.

And I’m alone.

Again.

The next glimpse of consciousness isn’t me rising up to hear the man with the gently rasping voice reading more of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy’s love story.

It’s a conversation that’s icy cold and filled with only sharp edges.

And it drives a stake of fear dead center into my heart.

Instinct has me diving deep, pulling that protective fog over me…

At least until the words belatedly process.

I freeze then, halfway between consciousness and nothingness, and I listen to the voices tangling with the steady beeping that seems to fill the room.

“...if she doesn’t show improvement soon,” a cool female voice says, “we’ll need to think about transferring her to a long term care facility. The hospital isn’t where she needs to be—not now that her injuries have healed and there isn’t lasting damage.”

Hospital.

Of course.

I should have known.