Names used to come easy.
I had signed hundreds of documents, scribbled notes to Ann in the college library, even doodled her name absentmindedly in the margins of my files. My hand once obeyed without question — a pen was an extension of me.
Now, it felt like holding a sword with shattered fingers.
The therapist placed the pen between my curled left fingers. "Just try to make a line today," Dr. Shane said gently. "Don't think about words yet."
The pen trembled in my grip. My wrist ached before I even pressed it to the paper. Sweat pricked at my temple.
Ann leaned forward, her hands folded like she was in prayer. Jacob sat cross- legged on the floor, a bag of chips already open.
"Come on, cousin," Jacob grinned. "If you can even manage a straight line, I'll consider you Picasso."
I wanted to laugh. Instead, anger surged — at my useless arm, my body that betrayed me, the pity in the room.
The pen slipped. A pathetic smudge stained the page.
My chest tightened. "This is ridiculous," I snapped. "I can't even draw a line. How the hell will I ever write her name?"
Ann's voice came steady, soft but firm. "One smudge today can be a letter tomorrow. Don't quit, Dennis."
But my patience burned out. I threw the pen aside. "You don't get it, Ann! You'll be waiting forever for me to be whole again. Maybe it's better if—"
Her hand shot out, gripping mine. "Don't you dare finish that sentence."
The silence that followed was heavier than any weight I had lifted in therapy.
Every time Dennis grew angry, a part of me broke. Not because of his words — I knew they were born of pain — but because he couldn't yet see the man I saw.
He didn't see the courage it took just to lift that pen. He didn't see how his breathless determination, even in failure, gave me strength.
"Dennis," I whispered, forcing his eyes to meet mine. "When you dropped that pen, you still tried. That's what matters. Do you know how many people would have given up by now?"
He looked away, jaw tight.
I cupped his face gently. "I don't need perfect handwriting. I don't need perfection at all. I just need you… here, fighting."
Roy entered quietly then, holding a folder. He glanced between us, sensing the tension. "Mind if I show something?"
Dennis muttered, "If it's another lecture on positivity—"
Roy smirked. "Not exactly. This is neuroplasticity research. Sometimes the brain relearns better if you imagine doing the task, even if your hand isn't moving. Visualization can build pathways before your muscles catch up."
Dennis frowned. "So you're saying I should just… dream of writing?"
"Not dream," Roy corrected. "Picture it vividly. Feel the pen in your hand. See the letters forming. The brain listens more than you think."
I caught Dennis's glance — skeptical, but curious. It was the first flicker of interest I'd seen after his frustration.
Roy's words haunted me that night. Visualization? It sounded absurd. But as I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, I tried.
I closed my eyes. I imagined my hand strong, steady. I pictured the pen gliding across paper, carving her name — Ann. Four simple letters. A word that had anchored me through storms.
A tremor ran through my arm. My fingers twitched. Not much, but enough to remind me there was still life in them.
When I opened my eyes, Ann was asleep in the chair beside me, her head resting on folded arms. Strands of hair had fallen across her face.
I whispered into the quiet: "One day, love. I'll write it again. I promise."
Morning brought new resolve. Dennis asked for the pen again before therapy even began.
Dr. Shane raised an eyebrow but obliged. "Alright, one line at a time. No pressure."
This time, Dennis gripped tighter. His hand trembled, his wrist stiff. Slowly — painfully slowly — he dragged the pen across the page.
The line wavered, jagged, but it was there. A mark.
My heart leapt. "You did it!"
He shook his head. "It looks like a drunk spider."
Jacob clapped dramatically. "Ladies and gentlemen, history has been made! Dennis versus paper: round one!"
Even Dennis cracked a smile.
Day after day, the practice continued. Some sessions ended in tears, others in silence. But every so often, a line grew straighter, a curve more controlled.
Then came the moment.
My arm ached. My head throbbed. But I refused to quit.
The pen touched paper. This time, I didn't aim for perfection. I aimed for A.
The letter scratched into existence, crooked and trembling, but unmistakable: A.
I stared at it, my throat tight. My hand slipped from the pen, exhausted.
Ann gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth, tears streaming. "Dennis… it's beautiful."
Beautiful? It was barely a shape. But to her… it was proof. Proof I was fighting.
I couldn't speak. I just pressed my forehead against hers as she whispered over and over, "You did it. You're coming back to me."
The others celebrated, Jacob cracking jokes, Roy nodding in approval, Dennis's parents smiling with tears in their eyes. But for me, that shaky "A" was more than progress.
It was hope inked on paper.
I knew the road ahead remained long and merciless. Yet I also knew this: no matter how crooked the letters, no matter how slow the steps, Dennis was reclaiming himself.
And I would be there, every smudge, every scribble, every tear — until the day his hand wrote my name in full.
Because love, I realized, was not about waiting for perfection. It was about embracing the journey, broken lines and all.