The discharge papers crinkled between her fingers like they were made of dried leaves. Even breathing felt like work. Yet the hallway outside the hospital room was warm with afternoon sunlight, and for once she was grateful for its softness—it made the world feel less sharp against her skin.
Two days after the incident and she's finally free.
"Ready?" Carla asked gently, looping Lila's light backpack over her own shoulder before Lila could protest. She had that calm, competent expression again, the one that made Lila wonder how a stranger could feel like an anchor so quickly.
"As ready as I'm ever going to be," Lila murmured.
They stepped out of the hospital together, Carla's steadying hand hovering close to Lila's back. She didn't touch unless Lila swayed, but the gesture alone made Lila feel less like a walking glass ornament.
A cab took them back to her building, and by the time they reached the entrance, Lila felt wrung out physically, emotionally, everything in between. The familiar beige-and-marble lobby looked oddly comforting now. And there he was.
"James," Lila said, trying for a smile as she walked toward him.
His relief was immediate and unguarded. "Miss Lila." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You gave us quite the scare."
"I heard," she said softly. "And… thank you. For noticing something was wrong. And for sending Carla."
Carla raised a hand sheepishly. "Technically, he just said you needed someone to look out for you. I may have taken that a little too literally."
Lila laughed, then winced when her ribs twinged. "I appreciate it. Both of you."
James cleared his throat, eyes sliding away as though embarrassed to be caught caring. "It was nothing. Just doing what your parents asked."
"Ah," Lila said, crossing her arms lightly. "So you were assigned to watch over me."
He froze. Carla's eyebrows jumped—clearly, she hadn't known about this part.
"Assigned is a strong word…" James started.
"James," Lila said, her tone teasing but warm.
He sighed. "Fine. Yes. Your parents asked me to keep an eye on you. Subtly."
Carla blinked, then stared at her uncle. "You never told me that."
"You didn't need to know," he said stiffly.
Lila couldn't help it; she smiled. "Honestly, I should be flattered. I've never had a secret guardian before."
"It wasn't meant to be secret," he muttered. "You just… didn't ask."
"Oh, so it's my fault," she teased.
James rubbed his forehead but he was smiling too, in his quiet, awkward way. "Just rest, Miss Lila. That's all I ask."
"I will," she promised.
Although scared to know his response she asked anyway. "Are my parents aware of…this?", implying the episode.
"It crossed my mind to inform them, but I thought against it. This one stays between us." James answered.
Lila squeezed James' hand before turning away. "Thank you. Truly."
Carla touched her arm gently. "I'll help you up."
His voice followed her as she and Carla headed toward the elevator. "Anytime."
Her apartment felt too quiet when they stepped inside. It smelled faintly of lavender and old paper—her sketchbooks were stacked on the coffee table where she'd left them. The curtains let in soft, late-afternoon light. Nothing had changed, but she had. She felt it in her bones, in the thinness of her breath.
Carla helped her to the couch. "Do you want tea? Or food?"
"Just… a minute," Lila whispered.
Carla nodded and placed her phone number on a sticky note atop the table.
"Call me if you need anything. Really."
"I will."
A last squeeze of her shoulder, then Carla left quietly, giving Lila the rare gift of silence.
Lila let her head fall back against the couch, eyes half-closed. She should sleep. She should rest. But the moment her gaze drifted toward the sketchbook, something inside her tugged.
Not to draw.
Not really.
Just… to hold it.
She reached for the book and pulled it into her lap. The cover was worn from use; the edges curled slightly. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but from everything else she hadn't had space to feel at the hospital.
She opened to a blank page.
The pencil moved before she knew what she wanted. Her hand traced the first line almost blindly. A shoulder. The curve of a jaw. A hand extended, offering something she hadn't drawn yet.
The date they never had.
She'd been trying so hard not to think about him. Trying to focus on her health, her time, the heavy truth she carried inside her like a ticking clock.
But Asher had slipped into the cracks anyway.
She paused, staring at the half-finished sketch. The version of him on the page wasn't perfect—in fact, it didn't even resemble him clearly. It was an impression of him, the way he made her feel rather than the exact shape of his face.
"Unfair," she whispered.
The word hung in the air.
Dragging him into all this—into her sickness, into her numbered days—was unfair. And selfish.
He didn't know.
He had no idea what shadow followed her.
And she intended to keep it that way.
Because what was the alternative?
Watch his expression crack?
Watch that warm laugh dim when he realized she might not make it to her next birthday?
Her chest tightened painfully.
She wasn't ready for that. She wasn't ready to watch someone she liked—someone who her soul had yearned for even any physical interaction—begin to mourn her before she was even gone.
She set the pencil down.
"Maybe I shouldn't go," she murmured.
But even as she said it, the words rang hollow.
Because she knew the truth.
She wanted to see him again.
Not forever.
Not for promises.
Just for one more moment where something felt normal.
Where she wasn't her diagnosis.
Where she wasn't defined by time.
Just Lila.
Just a girl who liked a boy she'd met in Florence.
She closed her eyes. Let the quiet wash over her. Let the ache soften.
When she opened them again, the decision arrived as gently as breath.
She would go to the café tomorrow.
She would sit in their corner.
She would wait.
If he came, he came.
If he didn't… well, she'd survive that too.
But she wasn't running from this—not when it made her heart feel awake for the first time in months.
"Whatever happens," she whispered into the stillness, "happens."
Her fingers brushed the sketch, the imagined version of him smiling in warm museum light.
She wasn't telling him about the illness.
She wasn't telling him about the sketches.
Not yet.
Tomorrow—just tomorrow—she wanted to be a girl on a date.
Or almost a date.
A girl with a crush, and a chance, and a day that was still hers.
And with that thought, for the first time since her episode, she felt something loosen in her chest.
Hope.
She closed the sketchbook and held it against her heart.
"Please show up," she whispered, though she would never say it aloud.
Then she let her eyes fall shut, drifting into a restless, tender sleep, already imagining the sound of the café door opening.