Some mornings, I still woke up with her name on my lips, inviting her to breakfast with me. A habit burned into my muscles. And for a second—just a second—I would forget. I would expect to hear her breathing, to see her curled up under the covers, paint still smudged on her hands.
Then the silence would slam into me like a stone wall. And I’d remember.
Today was no different.
I dressed sluggishly, as if every layer were a weight. All I wanted was to escape the ache sitting just beneath my ribs. I needed a distraction. Movement. Something that demanded my focus.
The gym lights were already on when I arrived. Rowan stood barefoot on the mat, arms folded, his stance relaxed but alert. He nodded once as I approached, his expression unreadable. We didn’t need words.
We never had—not for this.
Our sparring began in silence, movements measured and precise. The rhythm was familiar, almost soothing. But as the minutes wore on, something in me was faltering.
It must have been an off day again.
My vision darkened at the edges, a slow narrowing tunnel. My limbs felt heavier, as if I were moving through water. I tried to push through it. Just one more strike. One more dodge.
Then the floor lurched under me, and the air left my lungs in one violent sweep.
“Mavis?”
Rowan’s voice broke through the static just before everything went black.
I awoke to a ceiling too far away and the sterile scent of antiseptic burning my nostrils.
The infirmary.
The sheets were too crisp. The air smelled of bleach and endings.
Was it time for my transfusion already? I thought those were over. Or maybe it was another test. But I had just had one yesterday, I thought, or perhaps it was the day before.
All my days blended.
I turned my head slowly, and there he was—Rowan. Sitting beside the cot, with fingers laced tightly in his lap, his leg bounced in a quiet rhythm of worry. His expression was controlled, calm, but his eyes, which stared off into the distance, betrayed him. Beneath the careful stillness, they were frantic.
“Hey,” I whispered, my throat dry as bone.
He looked at me immediately. “You’re awake.”
His voice was tight, a thread pulled too taut.
“What happened?”
“You lost consciousness,” he said, as if saying it aloud made it more real.
Dr. Sinters appeared beside me, tablet in hand. “How long have you been experiencing symptoms?” She asked while scrolling on her screen.
I hesitated. “A little over a month.”
Rowan shot to his feet.
“Over a month?!” His voice splintered with disbelief. He paced once, hands flying behind his head. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I thought it was the stress,” I mumbled. “It didn’t seem that bad.”
He turned away from me, jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitch in his cheek.
Dr. Sinters was suspiciously unfazed by Rowan’s uncharacteristic outburst. She ignored his odd behavior and asked me questions.
