“Maybe I already have.”
She stands, eyes soft with pity. “Then you need help. Not another fight.”
I laugh — hollow, sharp. “Thanks for the diagnosis.”
When she reaches out to touch my shoulder, I pull away.
“Get out.”
“Ella—”
“I said get out!”
She goes.
The silence she leaves behind feels heavier than gravity.
Back in my quarters, the air tastes like recycled bleach. The bed’s too clean. The lights are too bright. I sit there a long time, staring at nothing.
My stomach churns. I haven’t eaten since morning. I push up to get water and suddenly double over the sink, dry-heaving.
It keeps happening. Morning. Night. Randomly. I chalk it up to stress, to recycled air, to too many memories grinding my brain to powder.
Until a thought hits me.
No.
I open the drawer where the medkits are stored. Pull one out.
There’s a single test strip inside — sealed, sterile, white.
My hands shake so hard I almost drop it.
Five minutes. That’s all it takes.
I pace the room. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Then I look.
A single blue light.
Positive.
The word slices me open.
I don’t cry at first. I just stare. My chest tightens. My vision tunnels.
Then the world tilts.
My knees hit the floor before I realize I’ve fallen.
I can’t breathe. The air’s too thin. My palms slide against the cold tile as if I can hold onto something real.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “Oh, Takhiss…”
The sound of his name shatters me.
I fold in on myself and sob until my throat feels raw, until my body gives up and I’m left kneeling on the floor of a silent room, clutching a test that glows faintly blue in the sterile light.
