Flashback
Lila had never been the type to panic about minor things. A scratchy throat before finals? She shrugged it off. A twisted ankle at volleyball practice? She limped through it. She'd always been that girl, the one who powered through whatever her body threw at her.
But that afternoon, walking back from her last class of the day with her backpack bouncing lightly against her side, something felt… off.
The sun was hot but not unbearable, the sky that washed-out early summer blue she'd always liked. Students moved around her in clusters, laughing and chatting, buzzing with end-of-year energy. She should've felt excited. She should've been thinking about her upcoming break, friends, movies, anything.
Instead, there was a strange pressure behind her eyes. A faint throb.
She rubbed her forehead and kept walking.
She'd just reached the university's main quad when someone called out from her left.
"Hey—uh, excuse me! You're bleeding!"
It took a moment for her brain to process the words were meant for her. Lila blinked and turned to look.
A girl she vaguely recognized from her statistics class pointed hesitantly at her face. Her expression was tight with concern.
"Your nose," the girl clarified. "It's… it's dripping."
Lila reached up instinctively, half-confused.
Her fingers came away wet.
Warm.
Red.
A strange jolt shot through her chest—surprise first, then a creeping pulse of fear. She pressed her sleeve to her nose, trying to stem the flow, but it was quicker than she expected.
"It's okay," she murmured, mostly to herself, even though it wasn't okay at all. "Probably just the heat."
But the quad suddenly tilted, just slightly, like the world had shifted on an uneven axis. She blinked again, steadier this time, but her legs felt soft—too soft.
"Are you alright?" the girl asked.
"I'm fine," Lila lied. "I just need—"
The sentence never finished.
A tightening sensation wrapped around her chest, not painful, not sharp, but heavy. Her vision blurred at the edges, shapes dissolving into smudges. Her knees buckled before she could stop them.
Someone called out her name.
Another hand reached for her arm.
But everything was moving too fast, or maybe too slowly, because she heard herself suck in a breath—thin, shaky—and then…
Darkness.
She woke to the sterile smell of antiseptic and a faint beeping rhythm. The ceiling above her was harshly white, blurring slightly as her eyes struggled to focus.
The school clinic.
Her throat felt dry, her limbs heavy. She tried to sit up but a nurse's hand gently pressed her shoulder down.
"Easy, sweetheart," the nurse said softly. "Take it slow."
"What… what happened?" Lila whispered.
"You fainted on campus. Your classmates brought you in." She adjusted the IV line connected to Lila's arm. "Your parents are on their way. They should be here soon."
Parents.
Her stomach tightened.
Whatever this was… it clearly wasn't small.
A few minutes later—though it felt like an hour—the door burst open. Her mother rushed in first, eyes wide with panic, followed by her father, whose face was strained in a way she had rarely seen.
"Oh, Lila, baby" her mother reached for her, hands trembling as they cupped her cheeks. "Are you alright? What happened?"
"I'm okay," Lila said, though her voice wavered. "I just fainted. Probably forgot to eat. I've been stressed."
Her father exchanged a look with the nurse—a look that said they both knew it wasn't that simple.
"Mr. and Mrs. Callahan," a voice spoke from the doorway.
A doctor stepped inside, clipboard in hand. His expression was composed, almost too calm. Her mother stiffened beside the bed.
"We've run some preliminary tests," the doctor began, "including a CBC—complete blood count. Some of the results came back concerning, so we ran additional panels."
"Concerning?" her father repeated, voice rougher than usual.
The doctor nodded slowly.
"Lila, your white blood cell count is significantly elevated. It's far outside normal range. Your red cells and platelets are extremely low. Combined with your symptoms—frequent fatigue, unexplained bruising, nosebleeds, fainting—these markers indicate acute myeloid leukemia."
The words landed like a blunt, metal weight.
Lila stared at him, waiting for the sentence to rearrange itself into something less horrifying.
AML.
She'd heard the term before. Distantly. In some medical documentary she'd half-watched during a lazy holiday afternoon. Cancer. Fast-developing. Aggressive.
Her mother's breath hitched sharply.
"No," she whispered. "No, not this. Not my daughter. Not—"
Her voice broke, collapsing into her hands.
The doctor continued gently, "We believe it's already progressed into an advanced stage, given how severe the markers are. We will run a bone marrow biopsy to confirm the subtype and staging, but we need to prepare for immediate intervention."
Advanced stage.
Immediate intervention.
Her father's face paled, deep lines forming across his forehead. He clenched his jaw so tightly she could hear the faint click of his teeth.
"What's… what's the prognosis?" he forced out.
The doctor exhaled through his nose before answering.
"With acute myeloid leukemia, especially at a later stage, treatment becomes significantly more difficult. We will do everything we can, but the condition is considered terminal in many cases."
Her mother's hand flew to her chest as if struck. "Terminal," she whispered. "My mother—Lila's grandmother—she died from AML." Her shoulders shook. "How… how can this be happening again?"
A heavy silence settled over the room—dark, suffocating, dense.
Lila's fingers curled weakly around the blanket. She didn't cry.
Not immediately.
Shock created a strange numbness, like her emotions had been placed behind soundproof glass.
She swallowed.
"So… how long?" she asked, because someone had to.
Her mother let out a soft sob. Her father closed his eyes as if bracing himself for impact.
The doctor didn't give a number. He only said, "We will discuss treatment options and timelines once we have the biopsy results."
But they all heard the unspoken truth.
Not long.
Not enough.
Nowhere near enough.
The doctor left, promising to return later.
The room shifted into a heavy quiet.
Her mother sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand so tightly it almost hurt. Her father stood by the window, rubbing his face, shoulders trembling. The air felt thick, like if she breathed too deeply, it might choke her.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to run.
She wanted to pretend none of this was real.
But instead, she whispered, "We'll figure it out."
Her mother looked at her like she had no idea how Lila could be so calm.
But it wasn't calmness.
It was disbelief.
And a desperate instinct to protect them from falling apart.
Present day
The memory faded like smoke as Lila blinked awake in a different hospital room.
The air smelled the same. The beeping machines were just as rhythmic. But the weight in her chest was heavier now, shaped by years, by episodes, by the quiet dread she carried with her like a shadow.
She tried sitting up.
Pain pulsed behind her eyes. Her body felt drained and weak, like she'd been filled with sand.
A nurse noticed she was awake and approached quickly.
"Good morning," she said gently. "Try not to move too fast."
"What… happened?" Lila murmured.
"You were brought in early this morning." The nurse offered a sympathetic smile. "Your building's doorman—James—found you. He hadn't seen you leave in the morning and said he had a gut feeling something was wrong. When he opened your door, you were unconscious."
Lila exhaled shakily.
The nurse continued, "You had a severe syncopal episode—your blood counts dipped dangerously low again. We're stabilizing you now."
Lila closed her eyes.
And then it hit her.
The date.
She sat up straighter, panic flaring despite the nurse's warning.
"Oh no… today…" Her breath quickened. "I—I was supposed to meet someone. He'll think I stood him up. I have no way to—"
She stopped, pressing a trembling hand to her forehead.
What must Asher be thinking?
What must he assume?
The fear twisted sharper than the memory of her diagnosis.
Not because she owed him an explanation—
but because she wanted to give him one.