The curtain that covered my bunk was yanked open and I rolled onto my stomach and pulled the comforter over my head to avoid the light that came pouring in.

"NICHOLAS! It's already 8:45! This is the third day in a row I've had to battle with you just to get you to come eat breakfast."

I groaned and opened my eyes as my comforter was torn away from me.

There was a grip my shoulder and I was pulled out of my bed and crash landing before I knew it. "Get up!!" A hand was offered to get me to my feet, the other holding a massive bowl, full of corn pops.

The consistent nagging would make the most patient person on earth pull their hair out.

It made my day complete.

A year ago, doctors were positive she wasn't going to live to see the next morning, let alone ever yell at me again.

But since when has she ever let the odds keep her down?

She made it to the next morning. And the next. And the next. After two solid months in acoma, she came out of it. The brain damage that they were sure would cripple her immensely, making her unable to live a normal life was gone without a trace. No one could medically explain it.

But I thanked God for it every single day.

I spent every day she laid in that hospital bed in the chair pulled at close to it as it would go. Somedays I talked to her, somedays I sang. Somedays I didn't say anything at all. But I was there, opening to closing visiting hours. My parents, her mom, my brothers and dozens of friends came to see her every day. I was there when she woke from acoma. I was there when she spoke her first words after being gone for two entire months.

"That shirt is awful, Nick" had never sounded so amazing.

Over the last year, she had completely recovered from every bump, bruise, ache and break her body had suffered. She did it with a smile. She was stronger than any of us were through the entire thing, and the day she got her leg casts off, fought with Joe and I for a solid three hours before we caved, and she walked.

She was left without a single scar, except for on the top of her left wrist that formed a small cross.

Ever since the day she came home from the hospital, I hadn't taken a single second with her for granted. We still argued, got annoyed with each other and yelled.

But we respected each other a lot more.

We argued a lot less, and agreed to disagree more. We got annoyed less, and loved the flaws more. We yelled less, and spent more time telling her I loved her.

We learned the hard way that there's never enough time to say it as much as you want to.

She's my best friend.

If she hadn't gone through everything she had, if she hadn't made me fight my demons and make a change...I never would have.

She's my miracle.

We don't talk about that week of September of last year anymore. We all think about it every day. Everytime we look each other in the eyes, we remember. With every smile and stupid fight, it's on our mind.

We don't talk about it, but we all know that it completely changed our worlds, our lives, our relationships and our hearts.

We had gone to Pinkberry, and I got her Jesse McCartney's autograph. She was right by my side when my brothers and I recieved our platinum album. She was my date to every award show, party and premiere we were cordially invited to. Now, she was on the tour bus with me, going across the country and eventually the world, on the biggest tour we had ever done. We had dozens upon dozens of insane adventures and thousands of pictures for proof. We had our first kiss, and it was even in the rain. We were in love, and we never let anything hold us back.

I brushed off my flannel pajama pants and looked down at her annoyed brown eyes that had me convinced that I was the luckiest guy on the planet.

I smiled widely, and said my simple, routine morning line, just because I had another chance to.

"Good morning, Riley."

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The End.