We’ve been at this appointment for an hour now. The doctor ran me through a bunch of tedious movement tests. Bend over, stand up, walk this way, move like that. He asked fifty questions about my daily pain levels. He’s examined the MRI. But he hasn’t shared anything of substance throughout the entirety of the checkup!

I tap my foot against the chair leg as he slowly shuffles through the paperwork on his desk. This suspense is unbearable.

“So when can I get back to work?” I finally blurt.

He takes a breath. “You’re still sleeping on the floor, correct?”

I swallow. “I mean, yes, but it’s helping. I’m healing. It’s not as bad. I can sleep now. The whole night. I’ve been sleeping without interruption for at least a week.”

He breaks eye contact. Clears his throat. Scratches his balding head. Folds his hands together.

My heartbeat ticks up. Longer? How much longer?

“I’m very sorry, Miss Maza. I thought this was clear after our initial appointment. There’s no going back to your previous lifestyle with this injury.”

I scoff, pulling on my first smile of the last ninety-three days. “What? No, I’m healing. Of course I’m going back.”

We sit in silence for ten seconds before he speaks again. “Back injuries are tricky. Something like this doesn’t ever really fully heal. You’re probably going to have to deal with chronic back pain for the rest of your life. What we can do is manage it with the right sort of physical therapy, yoga…”

I shake my head. This is laughable. He’s delusional. This doctor is wrong. So wrong. He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know how I’m healing.

I interrupt him. “No. No. I’m going to heal. I’m young, I’m only eighteen!”

He shakes head slowly. “I know this is a big life change for you. Lots of my patients find that swimming is a great replacement sport that won’t put such intense pressure on your injury. I’d recommend giving it a try. Going back to ballet is going to make this worse. You could lose feeling in your f—”

“No.” I’m still shaking my head. Life change? Swimming? I throw up my hands for him to stop because he doesn’t know.

He’s still talking. Intercourse this. He can’t tell me no. He doesn’t understand that I can’t quit. I can’t. This isn’t a big life change—this is my life.

My mother is saying thank you and goodbye. She puts her arm around me, leads me out. I glare at her. Why isn’t she saying anything to him? Why isn’t she fighting this with me?

Tears start down my cheeks as we arrive at the passenger side of Mom’s Toyota.