It's been two months since I woke up in that stark hospital room, two months since Reese ran in and cried and held me and I realized somehow, impossibly, miraculously, that I had survived, and in the time since everything has been a blur of white walls, machines beeping, monitors flashing, nurses bustling, the smell of antiseptic thick and sharp in my nose, the low murmur of voices in corridors, the endless footsteps, the clinking of medical instruments, the smells of bandages, disinfectant, sweat, food carts rattling along linoleum floors, the sensation of being watched, tested, evaluated, examined, prodded, measured, weighed, punctured by needles, hooked to IVs, weighed down by monitors, blankets, braces, and every part of me aching, muscles stiff, skin raw, bruised, throat parched, tongue thick, eyes watering, vision fuzzy and narrow from weeks of survival and delirium, the hospital routine relentless, a strange mix of comfort and imprisonment, yet slowly, imperceptibly, day by day, I began to remember, to piece together the events leading up to this point, the forest, the mountains, the rivers, the cold, the nights under makeshift shelters, the hunger gnawing deep in my stomach, the thirst clawing at my throat, the exhaustion pressing like water against my lungs, the injuries, scratches, bruises, cuts, burns, the animals I had seen, the moments of absolute terror, the moments of despair when hope felt nonexistent, the moments when I thought I could not go on, and yet I had, step by step, breath by breath, day by day, surviving on sheer instinct and stubbornness, until the jeep, the headlights, the hands that lifted me, the voices that called me back from the brink, and now I am here, alive, conscious, recovering, and each day has been a process of rediscovering life, of learning how to exist in a world that suddenly feels overwhelming, crowded, noisy, bright, and yet comforting, every sensation magnified, every sound sharper, every shadow more distinct, every light piercing, every texture familiar yet alien after weeks of rough bark, cold river water, sharp rocks, mud, dust, sticks, and wind, and in these two months, I have had moments of clarity, moments of panic, moments of tears and laughter, moments of simple, fragile joy, and in the hospital, it was a whirlwind of routines, meals, therapy, tests, blood draws, bandage changes, IVs, fluids, doctors' visits, whispered conversations, hushed hallway sounds, sudden alarms, the distant clatter of carts, the smell of food mixing with antiseptic and disinfectant, and in this world of controlled chaos, I slowly reoriented myself, relearned what it meant to be human outside the wilderness, outside survival mode, still trembling, still weak, still haunted by nights alone in the forest, still remembering every fear, every step, every scar, every bruise, and yet gradually, slowly, the human connection brought me back, the simple presence of someone familiar, someone I loved, someone who loved me in return, grounding me, tethering me to reality, reminding me I had survived, I had not lost myself, I had not been erased by the wilderness, I had lived, and now I would continue to live, and then came the media, the news, the reporters, the cameras, the photographs, the newspapers, the phones, the endless interviews, the questions, the stares, strangers looking at me as if I were some myth, some miraculous creature, the girl who survived alone in the wild for weeks, the girl who walked, who ran, who fought, who endured, who survived, the word "miracle" repeated over and over in headlines, on television, in conversations, yet I could barely comprehend it, I am still me, still Alice, still trembling, still fragile, still human, and every time I see myself on the news, on the newspapers, in magazines, I am reminded of the distance between the world outside and the mountains, the rivers, the forests, the snow, the cold, the hunger, the terror, the near-death moments, and I try to explain, in interviews, in conversations, in whispers to nurses, to doctors, to Reese, to anyone who asks, that it was real, that every step, every bruise, every scrape, every night, every river, every climb, every hunger, every thirst, every injury, every terror, every moment of loneliness, every thought, every hallucination, every fear, every triumph, every second of survival, and they listen, nod, gasp, cry, smile, and still I am me, still fragile, still recovering, still learning what it means to exist in a world outside survival, still learning to eat without fear, to drink without panic, to sleep without anxiety, to walk without exhaustion, to think without distraction from pain, hunger, and thirst, and then finally discharged, home again, apartment quiet, small, cozy, sunlight streaming through curtains, books on the shelf, the faint hum of electricity, the smell of freshly brewed coffee from a neighbor or Reese visiting, life quiet but alive, rooms familiar yet strange after months of survival, every object weighted with meaning, every step in the apartment deliberate, careful, muscles still trembling, body still fragile, each motion slow, conscious, measured, every sound amplified, every light piercing, and I am aware of every single moment, aware of my heart beating, aware of my lungs filling, aware of my fingers brushing a surface, aware of the world outside and within these walls, and Reese never leaves, sitting with me, helping me, laughing softly, talking softly, keeping me tethered to humanity, reminding me of normalcy, guiding me back to life gently, consistently, patiently, endlessly, and we spend hours recounting every detail, talking about the forest, the mountains, the rivers, the nights alone, the hunger, the thirst, the pain, the injuries, the hallucinations, the near-death, the jeep, the hands that saved me, the voices that reached me, the hospital, the recovery, and in those conversations I feel both the weight of what I endured and the strength of what I survived, and outside, the world continues, cars pass, birds call, neighbors glance, strangers recognize me from news reports, strangers ask questions, cameras sometimes flash, reporters sometimes appear at doorsteps, newspapers with my face smiling from survival stories stacked on counters, and I remember, again, that it happened, that I survived, that I endured, that I fought, that I kept walking, that I never gave up, that I am still here, alive, and the present, now, sitting by a window, sunlight warm on my face, soft breeze through the cracked window, the hum of the city, the smell of coffee and pastries from a nearby shop, Reese laughing on the phone with a friend, I have food in my stomach, water in my cup, my hands no longer trembling with starvation, body no longer consumed by cold or heat or exhaustion, and I reflect on every hour, every day, every step, every breath of the wilderness, the near-death, the solitude, the pain, the fear, the hallucinations, and I realize slowly, painfully, joyfully, that this is life again, alive, fragile, human, and I whisper to myself softly, voice barely audible, "I survived, I am alive, I will live," and I breathe, deeply, fully, consciously, feeling the warmth of sunlight, the cool breeze, the life continuing outside, the laughter of friends, the presence of people who care, the reality of my survival, the permanence of my existence, the tenuous thread of life I held onto, the unbroken chain of moments that brought me here, and I know that now I can walk forward, slowly, deliberately, one day at a time, learning to exist outside the wilderness, learning to live, learning to breathe, learning to be, learning to survive again in the world that continues outside, alive, awake, human, and I close my eyes for a moment, feel the air on my skin, the light on my face, the heartbeat in my chest, the laughter and presence of Reese beside me, the weight of survival still heavy yet beautiful, and I am Alice, survivor, human, alive, trembling, recovering, learning, reflecting, breathing, and for the first time in months, I can say fully and finally, I am alive. And for now, i can live with the fact that the forest, will always know my name.
