She lied.
And I didn't see it.
I should've pushed. I should've known. I should've been paying attention like a real older brother instead of being so wrapped up in my own life.
And the part that guts me the most?
She didn't even get to celebrate her favorite holiday properly.
Christmas.
Sam loves Christmas—the lights, the music, wrapping gifts for everyone she knows, humming carols and forcing me to drink peppermint hot chocolate.
This year though?
She spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day hooked to IV pumps, sweating through fevers, unable to stand long enough to even reach the damn window.
My throat burns when I think about it.
But then I remember what Caroline did few days ago... and the ache bends just a little instead of breaking completely.
God, my girlfriend—the absolute light of my life—walked into this hospital room two nights ago with bags of decorations and a mission. She hung twinkling lights around the window. Put a tiny Christmas tree on the side table, covered it in pink and gold ornaments.
She draped garland over the curtain rod, placed candy canes in a mug, and even brought a playlist of soft Christmas songs.
Caroline took a sterile, humming hospital box and somehow stitched Christmas spirit into every corner of it.
Then she somehow pulled together a small Christmas Eve celebration right here in the room—her parents even came in Miami to celebrate Christmas with us and to wish Sam a full recovery.
It was the first time in days I saw my sister's smile reach her eyes.
That alone nearly broke me.
Sam shifts in her sleep and I sit up straighter, instinctively reaching out. She settles again, breathing soft and even, looking... peaceful. She looks... better. Stronger than she did days ago.
And that should be enough.
But I know what's coming next and it fucking kills me.
Once she's been fever-free for 48–72 hours, once her pain stays controlled, once the blood cultures stay negative, once her white blood cell count stops dropping...
Only then can Dr. Wilcott and her team consider whether Sam's body can withstand the assault of induction chemotherapy. And even after clearing those hurdles, she'll remain tethered to this sterile room for another month while the poison they administer does its work.
What a thing to look forward to, right?
She will have to spend weeks of isolation. Nausea. Weakness. Watching her hair fall out again. Watching her fight for her life again. And all I can do is sit here and hold her hand and pretend I'm not terrified out of my mind.
I look at Sam now, tucked into her blankets, looking so young and small in that enormous hospital bed. My beautiful, stubborn, gentle sister who's been fighting battles she never should've had to fight.
And all I can think is—please.
Please let this be the last time she has to go through this.
Because I don't know how many times a heart is supposed to survive watching someone it loves be torn apart by treatment that's meant to save them.
I'm reading, or trying to, but I can't focus.
There's a dry, rattling hum in the hospital HVAC system, and it reverberates through the floor, running up my spine, making me jumpy. The magazine in my lap is one of those outdated ones, glossy and filled with celebrity trivia.
