The first week was a slow, agonizing crawl. The hospital room, which had once felt like a sanctuary, now felt like a cage.
My mom was my rock but even her kindness couldn't fill the void. The TV, once a source of comfort, became a torment. I watched my teammates train, a world away from my sterile bed. I saw their faces, their jokes, their hard work, and the absence of my own reflection in that world was a bitter pill to swallow.
I tried, every day, to make my Vision work. I'd stare at the screen, at the players, and whisper the command in my mind, but it was like shouting into an empty canyon. The silence was absolute.
.....
Three weeks turned into four, and then five. The physical therapy started, a series of painful stretches and light exercises that felt like an insult to my powerful body. I was a professional footballer, used to pushing my body to its limits, and now I was struggling to lift my own leg a few inches.
