“Tim? I… I got sick.” I straighten up, trying to project “fine,” but failing.
He frowns, stepping closer. “Sick how? Is it a flare? Do you need your meds?”
The question hits me like a slap. I blink at him, my head clearing slightly from the shock. “Why would you ask that?” I ask, the words thin and raspy. “How do you even know about that?”
He opens his mouth to answer, but the world suddenly tilts violently, like the whole pier is swaying. My knees buckle. I reach out, trying to grab the railing again, but Tim is faster. His arm wraps around my waist, steadying me.
“Whoa, easy,” he says, his voice tight with alarm.
I lean into his strength, my head drooping. The dizziness is overpowering, and an old, cold fear prickles my spine. “I... I thought I saw someone,” I mumble into his jacket, the words thick and slow. “Following me. From the car.”
Tim shakes his head gently. “You're seeing things, Maya. You're completely out of it. We need to get you to?—”
“No hospital,” I interrupt, pulling back weakly. “I'm fine. It's just a stomach bug. I just need saltines and ginger ale.”
Tim sighs and shakes his head as if I’m being ridiculous. “Maya, you would probably be passed out on the side of this road if I hadn’t found you while walking off my nervous energy.”
The effort of arguing is too much. My eyelids grow heavy, and the streetlights above become bright, blooming stars. The buzzing sound in my ears overtakes Tim's worried voice, turning it into a distant hum. The concrete ground rushes toward me, then stops abruptly. I feel the light weight of his hands on me, lifting, supporting. The last thing I remember is the spicy scent of his cologne and the cool, soft material of my own car seat as he gently tucks me into the passenger side. Everything dissolves into black.
I feel cold. Not the sharp, refreshing cold of the late-night air, but a deep, clinical chill that sinks into my bones. My head throbs, and the rough, starched sheet beneath my cheek smells faintly of bleach. I’m lying down. I open my eyes, and the world resolves slowly into soft, institutional beige. I’m in a hospital. Of course I am.
A woman in dark blue scrubs is standing over me, adjusting a drip line. She smiles when she sees I’m awake, her expression kind but distant.
“Welcome back, Maya. You gave your friends a scare.”
My throat is sandpaper. “Tim. Zachary. Are they…?”
“They’re just outside,” she confirms, checking the monitor next to my bed. “You’ve got a small crowd. They’re very worried. I need to run over a few things with you. Do you want to do that first before your friends come in, or is it okay if they hear?”
“They can come in first.” I whisper.
“Alright,” she replies. “Let me just go get them and then I’ll be back to run over things.”
Friends waiting. I know she’s referring to Zachary, who must be worried sick—this was supposed to be our nice night out. But I’m guessing she means Tim and Patty too. I never even made it to the pizza place. I never met Patty, Tim’s new girlfriend. The one we were supposed to meet tonight on our double date.
Moments later, the little room feels impossibly small as three figures squeeze in. Zachary is the first to reach the bedside, his face pale and etched with panic I haven't seen before. He’s clutching my purse to him like a shield. Tim and Patty are close behind him, looking composed but concerned.
The nurse returns a few minutes later, cutting through the awkward silence with professional efficiency. “All right, Maya. We ran some basic bloodwork. Your autoimmune markers are elevated, but that’s not what landed you here. We’re seeing signs of mild gastritis—inflammation of the stomach lining. It’s a complication we sometimes see with a flare.”
Gastritis. Inflammation. My stomach twists again, not with pain, but with hollow dread. “We’re going to keep you overnight, mostly for observation and rehydration. You’ll need to go on a short course of high-dose steroids to aggressively reduce the intestinal inflammation.” She pats my arm gently. “It’s just a temporary fix, but it should get you back on your feet quickly. Now you just rest, I’ll be back soon. Press the call button if you need anything before then.”
Steroids. The word echoes in my head. Bloated, puffy, wired, starving, crashing. It’s the cycle I’ve fought so hard to avoid, the one that makes me feel like a walking advertisement for chronic illness. The exhaustion, the flare-up, the denial, thecrash. I failed. I ignored the signs. I told Zachary I was fine. I told myself I was fine.
Tears sting my eyes, hot and immediate. I start sobbing, thick, ugly tears that slide into my temples, pooling in my hair. I don't care that Tim, whom I barely know, or Patty, a complete stranger, are witnessing this pathetic meltdown. I just can’t stop. The exhaustion is too deep, the failure too complete.
Zachary steps forward, my purse still gripped in his hand. He places it on the table beside the bed and bends over to plant a gentle kiss on my forehead. His face is tight with anxiety.
“Hey. I’m so sorry to drop this on you right now, but while you were… out,” he starts, shifting his weight nervously. “Your mom called. A lot. Like, six times. I didn’t know what to do, so the sixth time, I picked up.” He avoids my eyes, fiddling with my phone, which he pulls from the purse. “She was hysterical, asking why you didn’t answer, and then she sent this.”
He unlocks the screen and turns it toward me. It’s a picture of a painting. The lighting is harsh, but the subject is unmistakable: me. Not me now, but me five years ago, from the photograph she took right after my diagnosis. It’s titledThe Quiet War. Next to the painting is a small placard with a price in bold, black print:$150,000.
A fresh wave of hot, helpless fury washes over me, but it quickly dissolves into despair. I hate that painting. I hate it because it shows me at my absolute lowest, stripped of all dignity. I hate it because I look at the picture on the phone screen, and I realize: I look exactly the same now.
Years have passed. I’m stronger, I’m managing, I have a life, a teaching career, a supportive partner in Zachary. But I’ve spent the last six months convincing myself that if I justpretendthe illness isn't there, it won't be. I ignored the fatigue. I pushed through the joint pain. I refused to let Zachary, who has done nothing but try to help, make even the most reasonable suggestion about my diet or stress levels. I shut him downbecause every time he suggested I take it easy, or modify my life, I heard my ex-boyfriend, Sam.
Sam.I broke up with him when he tried to push me into going on steroids because it would be “safer” for future potential pregnancies. He completely ignored the fact that steroids made me feel horrible and pushed for what he wanted rather than what was best for me. He wanted a family no matter the cost to me and my body. And now, here I am, almost exactly where Sam left me—desperate, helpless, and in a hospital bed—and this time, it's partly my fault. My own stubborn refusal to listen to Zachary because he dared to care is what landed me in this hospital.
I look at the price tag again. $150,000. It's an incredible amount. It will help so many patients like me, fund research, perhaps ease someone else's quiet war. I’m not angry at Mom for selling it, not truly. I know she sees it as advocacy, as using her art for good. But what I want, what Idesperatelyneed right now, isn’t her help from afar, raising money for people I don't know. I just want her here, holding my hand, telling me I don’t have to be the strong one right now. I’m tired. I am bone-weary tired of trying to do this all by myself.
