The first thing I register is the cold.
Not a sharp, biting cold—more like the sterile chill of a room that doesn't belong to you. A room where the lights hum faintly and sheets smell faintly of disinfectant. My eyelids are heavy, glued together at first, and when I finally peel them open, everything is blurry.
White ceiling. Pale curtains. A drip bag hanging like a pale ghost above me.
And breathing.
Someone else's breathing.
I blink until shapes begin to sharpen, and that's when I see her. Seated in the chair beside my bed, legs tucked under her like someone trying to make herself small in a place she doesn't quite belong, is—Carla.
Carla?
She's asleep, head tilted awkwardly, dark curls spilling over her cheek. It takes a few seconds for the real confusion to settle in because the last time I saw her, she was smiling at me across a street and pointing out a gelato place.
Why is she here?
My throat feels scraped when I whisper, "Carla?"
Her eyes flutter instantly open, as if she's been sleeping lightly on purpose. For a moment she looks lost, then recognition flashes across her face.
"You're awake," she breathes, pushing upright. "Thank God."
I stare at her, still trying to force my brain to connect dots. "What… what are you doing here?"
"Long story," she says softly. "But mostly? I was asked to check on you."
"By who?" The question sounds small, almost childish.
She hesitates, as if searching for the least alarming way to phrase it. "My uncle. James."
James.
The doorman.
The memory hits like a jolt—the way he looked at me days ago, that almost-frown when he handed me a package, the question he asked too casually: Are you sure you're feeling alright today?
I always thought he was just being polite. Or observant. Or overly neighborly.
But no.
No, this is deeper.
Carla watches my expression shift and adds quickly, "He didn't tell me much. Just said you hadn't come downstairs all morning, and that wasn't like you."
"Well… it isn't," I admit quietly. I may be shy, but I don't disappear. And James apparently knows that.
Carla continues gently, "He tried calling through the door. No answer. No lights. That's when he used the key."
The words land heavy.
The key.
The arrangement.
I swallow hard as the memory drags itself up—the conversation with my parents after my first remission scare. Their refusal to let me leave home unless someone kept an eye on me. Their insistence that my housing for the gap year include "internal supervision."
I'd been annoyed. Embarrassed. But desperate for freedom, so I agreed. At the time, it sounded harmless. A doorman checking if I was alive occasionally. Making sure my emergency contacts were updated.
But I had no idea they meant for him to watch my patterns.
No clue he'd take it seriously.
No idea I'd wake up in a hospital bed because of it.
"What… what happened?" I finally ask.
Carla softens. "He said he found you on the floor. You fainted. The ambulance took you, and since he couldn't leave the building, he called me to come stay with you. He thought you shouldn't be alone when you woke up."
I close my eyes. It's too much at once. The IV drip, the dryness in my mouth, the pounding in my skull—all of it reminds me exactly why my parents insisted on supervision.
Carla shifts awkwardly. "I didn't know it was you. The same girl I met earlier. It was a shock when I walked in."
I manage a weak laugh. "You and me both."
There's a quiet moment, then Carla bites her lip, hesitation clear. "Can I ask something? If it's too personal, tell me to shut up."
"You can ask."
"Is this… normal for you?"
The question lacks pity, and because of that, I answer honestly.
"I have Acute Myeloid Leukemia," I say, voice steady even though my pulse jumps. "Stage three."
Carla's eyes widen, but not with fear—more like realization. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," I murmur. "I've had it for two years now. It comes in waves. I try to… manage my life around it."
"Your parents know?"
"They've known from the start. My grandmother died of the same thing. That's why they… they worry."
Carla nods slowly, like she understands the weight of inherited fear. "And the doorman arrangement?"
"My parents' idea," I admit. "Part of the deal for my gap year. I didn't think he took it so seriously."
Carla lets out a breath. "Well… after today, I'm glad he did."
The silence that follows is soft. Not heavy. Comfortable, even.
But then Carla asks quietly, "Is there anyone you want me to call? A friend? Family?"
My heartbeat stumbles.
A face flashes in my mind.
Dark hair, tied loosely.
Warm eyes that seem to see too much.
The smile he showed me for the first time across a café table.
Him.
The guy.
The one I was supposed to meet today.
"I…" My voice cracks embarrassingly. "There's… someone."
Carla tilts her head. "Someone?"
"I was meant to meet him today," I whisper, staring at my hands. "We never set a time, but I assumed he understood what I meant. I'm guessing he showed up and waited."
She smiles softly. "A date?"
"Something like that," I murmur. "I don't know what to call it yet."
"Do you want me to reach him for you?"
I shake my head quickly. "No. I don't have his number. Or his last name. We've only met a few times. It's… complicated."
Carla doesn't tease or pry. She simply says, "Then what worries you most? Missing the meeting? Or that he's wondering where you are?"
I look at her.
Really look at her.
And the truth settles on my tongue before I can swallow it.
"That he's wondering," I whisper. "And that I can't explain. And that maybe I shouldn't explain."
Her expression softens. "Because of your condition."
I nod.
"And because he doesn't deserve to get pulled into this chaos," I add quietly.
Carla sits back in her chair and exhales. "I'm not going to pretend to know what's best. But… sometimes people surprise you."
"That's the problem," I say softly. "I don't know if I should let him. Or if it's selfish to even want that."
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the slow, rhythmic beeping of my heart monitor.
Carla reaches out and places a gentle hand over mine. "You don't need to decide tonight."
I swallow tightly, blinking hard against the sting behind my eyes.
"I don't even know how to move forward," I admit.
Carla squeezes my hand.
"Then we start with breathing," she says softly. "And tomorrow… tomorrow we figure out the rest."
I close my eyes.
And for the first time that day, I let myself breathe.