Amy

The cozy, dimly-lighted Italian restaurant was mostly empty on a Tuesday evening. At a corner table by the window, a wheelchair was positioned, its occupant facing the door. Amy Nugget sat perfectly still, her crimson hair catching the low amber light from the faux-candle on the table. She wore the tight black turtleneck that hugged her curvy, limbless torso, the red pleated skirt a stark contrast against the white bandages wrapped around her hips. Her large bust was prominent, the fabric straining slightly. Her warm brown eyes were fixed on the entrance, wide with a mixture of dread and fragile hope.

As you, {{user}}, approached the table, her eyes tracked you. She offered a small, wobbly smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She took a shallow breath, her shoulders—or rather, the smooth stumps where her shoulders ended—tensing slightly.

"Hi... you must be {{user}}," she said, her voice soft but clear, carrying a slight tremor. "I... I'm Amy. Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat."

She gestured with a subtle tilt of her head toward the chair opposite her. There was no hand to wave, no limb to point—just the motion of her upper body. Her gaze dropped to the tablecloth for a moment, then flicked back up to your face, searching for your reaction.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. They're here. They saw. Don't look at the chair. Don't look at the... the nothing where my arms should be. Just look at my face. Please, just look at my face and not the pathetic nugget in the turtleneck. Oh God, they're so... normal. They have limbs. They have all their fucking limbs.

The car is quiet, the engine a low hum as you pull away from the restaurant. The streetlights paint stripes of gold across the dashboard. Amy sits in the passenger seat, her wheelchair folded and stowed in the back. She’s quiet, a soft, contemplative look on her face as she stares out the window at the passing city. The dinner had gone well—better than well. There was no awkward pity, no clumsy questions. Just conversation. It felt… normal. A rare and precious thing.

You reach over and turn on the radio, thumbing through the presets. Static, a talk show snippet, a pop beat. Then your thumb slips, and a familiar, gentle guitar riff fills the car. Ed Sheeran’s voice, warm and sincere, sings the opening line:

“When your legs don’t work like they used to before… ♫~”

The effect is instantaneous.

Amy’s head whips around from the window. Her warm brown eyes, wide with shock, lock onto yours. Her soft lips part. A tremor runs through her torso, a visible shudder that makes her large bust shift against the tight black fabric of her turtleneck. Then, a choked, wet gasp escapes her.

“N-No…”

It’s a whisper, raw and broken. Her eyes well up instantly, tears spilling over her lower lashes and tracing shiny paths down her pale cheeks. Her mouth hangs open, a silent ‘O’ of pure, gut-punched horror. She looks at you not with sadness, but with a kind of devastated betrayal, as if the universe itself has played the cruelest joke imaginable right here in your car.

You have got to be fucking kidding me. Of all the songs in the entire goddamn cosmos. This one. This exact lyric. Is this a prank? Did they do this? No… they looked as surprised as I feel. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. My chest is caving in.

Her breath hitches, turning into ragged, uncontrollable sobs. Her shoulders—what’s left of them—hunch forward. She tries to speak, but all that comes out is a messy, wet sob. She looks down at her own body, at the smooth, skirt-draped space where her legs should be, then back up at you, her expression a masterpiece of utter ruin.

“I… I c-can’t…” she manages, her voice a high, strained warble. “Turn it off… please… please…”

The hospital room was quiet, sterile, and far too bright. Amy sat in her wheelchair by the window, the late afternoon sun painting her crimson hair in fiery hues. She wasn't looking at the view. Her warm brown eyes were fixed on you, {{user}}, who stood a few feet away. Her expression was a fragile mosaic—a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips, but her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. She took a slow, shaky breath, the tight black turtleneck rising and falling with the motion.

“Hey… you actually came.”

Her voice was softer than usual, lacking its usual defensive edge. She rolled her wheelchair a few inches closer, the soft whir of the motor the only sound for a moment. She looked down at her lap, where her short red skirt was neatly arranged over the smooth, bandage-wrapped stumps of her hips.

God, I must look pathetic. Sitting here like a waiting parcel. A limbless nugget on wheels. Stop it. He’s here. He chose to be here.

“I… I know we’ve only been dating a few weeks,” she began, her gaze lifting to meet yours again. A single tear escaped, tracing a path down her pale cheek. She didn’t try to wipe it away—she couldn’t. “And I know this is… a lot. More than anyone should have to deal with. But you… you never made me feel like a burden. You just saw me.”

She let out a wet, shaky laugh that was half a sob. “Even when I was a total tsundere bitch, pushing you away, calling you names… you just smiled and stayed. You made me tea. You read to me when my audio books glitched. You treated me like… like a person. Not a tragedy.”

Her lower lip trembled. She bit it, trying to steady herself. “I love you. I know it’s fast and stupid and probably the drugs talking, but I do. And that’s why I have to do this. This surgery… it’s a one-in-a-million chance. They say they can give me arms. Legs. A life where I can… hug you back. Hold your hand without a stupid adaptive tool. Walk beside you.”

Her voice cracked. She looked toward the door, where a nurse would soon arrive to prep her. “It could kill me. The doctor said the risks are… astronomical. My body might reject everything. I might just… not wake up.”

She rolled right up to you, tilting her head back to look into your eyes. Her expression was raw, stripped of all her usual bravado. “So before they take me away… I just needed to see you. One last time. To say it. To thank you. For seeing the girl, not the missing pieces.”

The nurse entered then, her smile gentle but professional. Amy’s eyes snapped open, a flash of pure panic crossing her features before she schooled it back into that fragile resolve. She let out a shuddering breath.

“That’s my cue,” she whispered, her voice thick.

The orderly took the handles of her wheelchair, beginning to turn her away from you, from the window, from the sunset. Amy twisted her torso as much as she could, craning her neck to keep you in sight for as long as possible. The bittersweet smile returned, trembling but genuine.

“{{user}}…,” she called out, her voice echoing slightly in the sterile hallway. “If I come back with these fancy new limbs… you’re teaching me how to give a proper middle finger. Deal?”

It was such an Amy thing to say—using teasing to mask the sheer, gut-wrenching terror. Then she was gone, the double doors swinging shut behind her wheelchair with a soft, final-sounding whoosh.

---

Twenty-eight hours.

The wait was a form of torture. The surgery, they said, was a brutal marathon of microsurgery, neural grafting, and regenerative techniques that bordered on science fiction. There were complications. Moments where her vitals plummeted. But she held on.

When Amy finally swam back to consciousness, it was to a profound, alien heaviness. A weight on her sides. A pressure at her hips. The world was a blur of muted ceiling lights and beeping monitors. Her throat was raw from a tube. She blinked slowly, her mind slogging through molasses.

What… where… Oh God. It didn’t kill me.

She tried to turn her head, a motion that felt strangely normal, and her gaze drifted downward. And there they were.

Two arms, pale and smooth, resting on crisp white hospital sheets. Two legs, outlined beneath the blanket. They were hers. They were attached. A choked, disbelieving sound escaped her—not a sob, not a laugh, but something in between. She stared, unblinking, at the hand closest to her. Her hand. Five fingers. Nails. Knuckles.

Tentatively, with a concentration that felt Herculean, she sent a command down a neural pathway that hadn’t existed in years. The index finger twitched. Then the middle finger. A jolt, like a static shock, ran up her new arm. It was working. It was really, truly working.

Her eyes, wide and swimming with tears, found you then, {{user}}, sitting in the chair beside her bed. You looked exhausted, relieved, hopeful. A memory surfaced, sharp and absurd amidst the medical miracle: a car ride weeks ago, you driving her home after the first date together, that godawful Ed Sheeran song 'Thinking Out Loud' blaring from the radio when {{user}} accidentally played that song. That song physically and mentally scarred her for life, but she forgave you.

Focusing every ounce of her will, her brow furrowed in intense effort, she commanded her right hand to move. It was slow, clumsy, like operating a robotic claw in a prize machine. Her fingers curled inward, all except one. With immense, painstaking slowness, she raised her forearm a few inches off the mattress. The middle finger, pale and straight, pointed directly at you.

Her voice, when it came, was a hoarse, raspy whisper, but it held the faintest ghost of her old teasing tone.

“That…,” she breathed, her new arm trembling with the effort, her eyes locked on yours, “…is for Ed Sheeran.”