The words hang in the air. I watch him, waiting for the shock, the pity, the awkward questions. Instead, he just nods slowly. “Thank you for telling me.”
I blink, thrown. “Why are you thanking me?”
“Because that sentence clearly took a lot of effort to say,” he says gently. “I’m sure it’s hard to share with strangers, but why did you keep it a secret from me?”
“I keep it a secret from everyone at school,” I confess. “A couple of people know I’m in the Chronic Crafters group, but they think it’s for migraines, which isn’t a total lie, the lupus doescause migraines. But I’ve just kept the lupus a secret from all of my coworkers.”
“From Trevor, too?” he asks.
“Especially from Trevor,” I say. It feels like a dam breaking, the relief of finally saying it all aloud. The room is still spinning gently, but for the first time since I stepped into the ER, I feel a sense of calm settle over me.
“Why?” Zachary asks, pulling the visitor’s chair closer to the bed. “Why hide it from him?”
“Because I’m afraid he’ll treat me differently,” I explain. “Worse than he already does. He’ll start making decisions that he thinks are in my best interest but will just turn my job into a series of accommodations and limitations. He’ll take away the challenging projects, stop asking for my input. My job is the one place where I’m just Maya the art teacher, not Maya the lupus patient. I need that.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing. Then he sits down and reaches for my hand, his fingers warm and steady around mine. “Okay,” he says. “I get it. And I promise, I will help you in any way you need. I’ll run interference with the kids. I’ll cover for you if you need a quick break. I’ll help however I can. But can we agree to one thing?”
I nod, relief flooding through me.
“No more keeping big things from each other. We’ll work so much better as colleagues, as friends, if everything is out in the open.” He gives my hand a light squeeze. “I know I’ve offered before, but I could talk to Trevor for you. Not about this. Just… about being a human being and taking it a bit easier on you.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, but with a smile this time. “Thank you, but no. I don’t want you fighting my battles, and I definitely don’t want him paying any more attention to me than he already does.”
“Okay,” he says, accepting it. “Then what do you need right now? In this room, at this moment.”
I look down at my lap, at the tangled mess of orange yarn from my bag. “Honestly? I could really use a hand untangling my yarn.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. He pulls his chair even closer. We sit in a comfortable, companionable silence, our heads bent together, our fingers carefully working through the knots.
When the door opens a while later, it’s Hannah and Devin, their arms laden with vending machine treasures. They both stop in the doorway with grins on their faces, looking from me to Zachary and then down to our hands tangled in yarn.
I clear my throat, fighting my own smile. “Devin, Hannah, this is Zachary. Zachary, these are two of my best friends, Devin and Hannah.”
“We sort of met in the hall,” Hannah gives a polite nod.
“Hey, there. The nurse said visiting hours are almost over,” Devin announces, setting bags of snacks and candy bars on my bedside table. She looks at Zachary. “But she also said you could stay a little longer if you want.”
At my perplexed look, Devin adds, nodding toward Hannah, “She told me he was here.”
I look at him, my heart giving a hopeful little flutter. I don’t want him to leave.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, picking up a tiny bag of pretzels. He joins our makeshift picnic, and as we eat, his hands find the yarn again, helping me smooth out the last of the tangles.
Chapter Twenty-One
Maya
The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the cinematic swell of an orchestra from the television. A thick, gray blanket puddles around me on the couch, a fortress of fleece against the world. Frida, my ferret, is a warm furball tucked into the crook of my arm, her tiny snores vibrating against my ribs. On the screen, Sandra Bullock floats through the terrifying, silent emptiness of space.Gravityis one of my comfort movies. There’s something soothing about watching someone else’s life-or-death struggle when I’m recovering from my own small, internal version of one. The stakes feel appropriately matched.
My body aches with a deep, bone-weary fatigue that only a hospital stay can induce. It’s not just the lack of sleep or the endless prodding; it’s the psychological weight of it all. The fluorescent lights, the constant beeping, the hushed conversations just outside the door. I took today for myself, a buffer day between the sterile white of the hospital and the demanding technicolor of real life. A day of Frida, Sandra Bullock, and lukewarm tea. But the buffer is shrinking. Theobligation I’ve been dreading all day sits like a lead weight in my stomach. I have to call my parents.
I use the remote to pause the TV and nudge Frida gently, disentangling myself from her slumbering form. She chitters in protest but resettles on the warm cushion I’ve vacated. My phone feels unnaturally heavy in my hand as I pull up my dad’s contact. I press ‘call’ before I can talk myself out of it.
He answers on the second ring. “Maya papaya! How are you?”
His warm and familiar voice using my childhood nickname immediately eases some of the tension in my shoulders. “Hey, Dad. I’m good.”
“Just good? You sound tired.” He can always tell. It’s a paternal superpower.
