Life 2.0
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 7: The Reveal
Week 2, Day 8 – Morning
“Dance” became their code.
Keisha would arrive for a session, and before she could start her countdown, Brent would look at Ji-Eun and ask: “Wanna dance?”
Every time, Ji-Eun would roll her eyes and say: “I suppose.”
Every time, Brent would help her stand, and they’d sway there together while Keisha pretended not to notice the way Ji-Eun’s fingers had started gripping his shoulder higher, holding tighter, trusting more.
By week two, the sessions felt less like medical procedures and more like ... something else. Something neither of them wanted to name but couldn’t deny.
Ji-Eun was up to six minutes now, sometimes seven when she pushed herself. The burning had lessened to a dull ache. Her right leg had stopped shaking quite so badly.
Progress. Real, measurable progress.
And Brent was there for all of it.
Week 2, Day 10 – Afternoon
Sarah from the law firm visited during the three o’clock session.
Ji-Eun had just stood up, Brent’s hand at her waist, when Sarah walked in carrying a bouquet that belonged in a funeral home.
“Oh my God, Ji-Eun!” Sarah’s voice hit that particular pitch of performative sympathy that made Ji-Eun’s teeth ache. “I had no idea it was this bad. You poor thing.”
Ji-Eun wobbled. Brent’s hand tightened.
“Bad timing,” Keisha said firmly. “We’re mid-session. You can wait in the hallway or come back later.”
“I just wanted to see how she’s—”
“Hallway. Now.”
Sarah retreated, still clutching her absurd flowers. When the door clicked shut, Ji-Eun exhaled shakily.
“You okay?” Brent asked quietly.
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
She looked up at him. “She meant well.”
“Doesn’t make it easier.”
No. It didn’t.
After the session, Sarah returned—properly chastened—and spent twenty minutes talking at Ji-Eun about office gossip and depositions and everything that used to matter. Used to be Ji-Eun’s whole world.
Now it felt distant. Irrelevant. Like watching someone else’s life through frosted glass.
When Sarah finally left, Brent closed his laptop.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking so loudly I can hear it from here.”
Ji-Eun laughed—startled and genuine. “Was I that obvious?”
“Little bit.”
She settled back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted. “She sees me as broken. You heard her—’poor thing.’ Like I’m something to pity.”
“Yeah. I heard.”
“You don’t do that.”
Brent was quiet for a long moment. “No. I don’t see you as broken.”
“What do you see?”
He met her eyes. “Someone who stood on one leg for seven minutes this morning and made it look easy. Someone who jokes about giving away left feet. Someone who insists on leading even when she can barely stand.”
Ji-Eun’s throat tightened. “Brent—”
“You’re not broken, Ji-Eun. You’re just ... different than you were. Still figuring out what that means. But not broken.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Besides,” Brent added, “you’ve still got me beat on two left feet.”
There it was—the lifeline of humor he kept throwing her. Ji-Eun grabbed it gratefully.
“Fair point,” she conceded.
Week 2, Day 14 – Evening
Two weeks post-op. Fourteen days of dangling, sweating, gritting her teeth through pain that Keisha swore would get better but never quite did.
Fourteen days of Brent showing up. Every session. Every time.
“Last one for today,” Keisha announced, walking in at seven with her tablet. “Let’s go for eight minutes tonight—see how you do.”
Ji-Eun groaned. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“If I wanted to kill you, I’d make it ten. Eight is generous.”
Brent was already standing, laptop closed, moving to his position without needing direction. The routine was automatic now—muscle memory for all three of them.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Never.” But Ji-Eun was smiling. “Let’s dance anyway.”
Eight minutes. Ji-Eun made it to seven before her right leg started trembling too badly to continue. Keisha called it, and Brent eased her back down with the careful confidence of someone who’d done this forty times already.
“Good work,” Keisha said, packing up. “Also—you have a clinic appointment tomorrow at ten. Dr. Morrison wants to check the incision, possibly remove sutures if everything looks good.”
Ji-Eun’s stomach dropped. “Tomorrow?”
“Yep. Two weeks is standard for suture removal. Everything’s been healing well, so he’ll probably take them out, apply some tape, and send you home with care instructions.” Keisha glanced at Brent. “You going with her?”
“If she wants me to.”
Both women looked at Ji-Eun. She swallowed hard. “Yeah. I ... yeah. Please.”
“Good.” Keisha headed for the door. “Ten AM. Wear something loose—easier access for examination.”
After she left, silence settled heavy.
“You don’t have to come,” Ji-Eun said quietly. “I know it’s a workday—”
“I’m coming.”
“Brent—”
“I’m coming, Ji-Eun. Unless you really don’t want me there. But if you do? I’m coming.”
She looked at him—this man who’d spent two weeks watching her struggle to stand, who’d steadied her through every wobble, who’d made terrible jokes about left feet and looked at her like she was still whole.
“I want you there,” she whispered.
“Then I’ll be there.”
Week 2, Day 15 – Morning
The clinic was too bright. Too sterile. Too full of people who stared at Ji-Eun’s wheelchair like it was a tragedy on wheels.
Brent pushed her through the automatic doors, one hand resting on her shoulder in silent support. They checked in at the front desk, received matching sympathetic smiles from the receptionist, and settled in to wait.
“I hate this,” Ji-Eun muttered.
“The waiting room?”
“The looks. The pity. The way everyone acts like I’m—” She gestured vaguely at herself.
“Human?”
“Fragile.”
Brent crouched beside the wheelchair so they were eye level. “You’re the least fragile person I know.”
“I’m in a wheelchair.”
“Temporarily. And even if it wasn’t temporary—you’re still not fragile. You’re just using wheels instead of legs. Doesn’t change who you are.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Yeah. It is.” Brent squeezed her hand. “But that doesn’t make it less true.”
Before Ji-Eun could respond, a nurse called her name. They followed her back to an examination room—larger than standard to accommodate the wheelchair—and waited for Dr. Morrison.
He arrived five minutes later with a warm smile and efficient energy. “Ji-Eun! Good to see you. How’s the pain level?”
“Manageable. Better than last week.”
“Excellent. Any signs of infection? Fever, unusual discharge, heat around the incision?”
“No. It’s been ... fine.”
“Great. Let’s take a look.” Dr. Morrison washed his hands, snapped on gloves. “I’m going to unwrap and examine the incision site. Might feel some pulling when I remove the stitches, but it shouldn’t hurt. Ready?”
Ji-Eun’s hands clenched in her lap. Brent moved closer, offering his hand. She took it, gripping hard.
“Ready,” she lied.
Dr. Morrison began unwrapping. Layer after layer of gauze and compression bandaging, the splint coming off, until finally—
The residual limb was fully exposed.
Ji-Eun couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away. The incision line ran cleanly across the end, held together with neat surgical staples. The skin around it was pink and white, healing but still raw-looking. The overall shape was rounded, tapering toward the end.
It looked nothing like a leg. Nothing like anything she recognized as part of herself.
Dr. Morrison examined carefully—checking circulation, skin integrity, the incision line itself. He palpated the tissue gently, assessing for hot spots or concerning swelling.
“This looks fantastic,” he announced. “Honestly, Ji-Eun—textbook healing. No signs of infection, excellent tissue approximation. Your body’s doing exactly what we want it to do.”
“Fantastic,” Ji-Eun echoed hollowly.
Dr. Morrison looked up, meeting her eyes. “I know this is hard to see. I know it doesn’t feel fantastic. But from a surgical perspective? You have a beautifully shaped residual limb. The length is ideal, the tapering is even, there’s no excess tissue or irregular bulges. When we get to prosthetic fitting in a few months, this shape is going to make the process so much smoother.”
“You’re calling my stump beautiful.”
“I’m calling it well-formed. And yes—in my professional opinion, it’s beautiful work. Both the surgery and your healing.” He began removing staples with practiced efficiency. “These are coming out easily—another good sign. After this, I’ll apply adhesive tape around the incision for support. That’ll stay on for about a week, then fall off naturally. You’ll transition to light dressings and start scar massage to prevent adhesions.”
Each staple came out with a small tug and click. Ji-Eun focused on Brent’s hand in hers, on his thumb rubbing small circles against her palm, on anything except the clinical efficiency of Dr. Morrison dismantling the stitches holding her together.
“Almost done,” Dr. Morrison said. “Last two ... and there. All out.”
He applied thin adhesive strips around the incision line—reinforcement while the tissue finished knitting together. Then he began rewrapping with lighter compression bandages.
“Keep doing your dangling exercises—they’re crucial for edema management and tissue shaping. Continue with the splint during therapy sessions for another week or so, then we’ll phase it out. You’ll use light dressings and compression for the next few weeks while the incision fully heals.” He finished wrapping and stepped back. “Any questions?”
“When can I...” Ji-Eun trailed off.
“Walk?” Dr. Morrison asked gently. “We’ll start working toward that around week six or eight. First we need full healing, then shrinker socks to control swelling and shape the residual limb, then prosthetic casting around months two to three. Physical therapy will ramp up gradually—you’re already doing great with the dangling. Chair transfers and mobility work come next.”
“Months,” Ji-Eun whispered.
“Months,” Dr. Morrison confirmed. “But you’re right on track. Everything’s healing exactly as it should. You’re doing the work. You’ll get there.”
After he left with instructions to follow up in two weeks, Ji-Eun sat in stunned silence. Brent crouched beside the wheelchair again.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “You okay?”
“He called it beautiful.”
“It is healing beautifully. That’s good news—”
“It’s not beautiful, Brent. It’s—” Her voice cracked. “It’s ugly and wrong and I hate looking at it.”
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Yeah.” Brent squeezed her hand. “You’re allowed to hate it. Allowed to think it’s ugly. Your feelings are valid.” He paused. “But that doesn’t change what Dr. Morrison said. From a medical perspective, you’re healing well. The shape is good. That matters, even if it doesn’t feel like it matters right now.”
“I don’t want it to be well-shaped. I want my leg back.”
“I know.”
“I want to go back to two weeks ago when I was whole and normal and—” Ji-Eun broke off, tears spilling over.
Brent didn’t try to stop her crying. Didn’t offer platitudes or false comfort. Just stayed there, crouched beside her wheelchair in a too-bright examination room, holding her hand while she fell apart.
When she finally quieted, he offered her tissues from the box on the counter.
“Thanks,” she managed.
“Anytime.” He helped her clean up, patient and gentle. “You want to go back to the hospital? Or we could grab lunch somewhere if you’re up for it.”
“You saw it,” Ji-Eun said abruptly. “The whole thing. What’s left of—what it looks like now.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“And?”
“And ... I saw your leg completely crushed and mangled. That didn’t stop me from staying with you.”
Brent was quiet for a long moment. “And I’m still here. Still want lunch. Still think you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”
“Even knowing what I look like?”
“Ji-Eun.” His voice was firm. “I’ve been standing next to you for two weeks while the residual limb dangled between us. I’ve seen the bandages, the splint, the shape under the wrapping. Today I saw skin and stitches and surgical tape instead of gauze. But I’m seeing the same person I’ve been seeing all along—you.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No. But you’re still you. Still sharp enough to eviscerate me with a comeback. Still stubborn enough to argue about session lengths with Keisha. Still brave enough to let me be here for this.” He stood, offering his hand. “Still someone I want to have lunch with. If you’re interested.”
Ji-Eun looked at his hand—steady, open, waiting. Then up at his face, where she found no pity. No careful sympathy. Just that steady certainty that she was worth every moment.
“Okay,” she whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Let’s get lunch.”
Brent’s smile was pure relief. “Good. Because I’m starving, and you need to eat something before Keisha lectures us both.”
Ji-Eun laughed—wet, shaky, but genuine. “She would, wouldn’t she?”
“Absolutely. That woman is terrifying.”
“Don’t let her hear you say that.”
“Too late. I’m pretty sure she already knows.”
Week 3, Day 17 – Morning
The week after suture removal was different. Lighter. The bulky dressings were gone, replaced by soft compression wraps that Ji-Eun could almost forget about. Almost.
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