I turn toward Zachary, whose face is a mirror of my own despondency, the dark circles under his eyes telling me how exhausted he is. He opens his mouth, clearly trying to find the gentle words, and then just closes it again, swallowing whatever he was going to say.
Tim shifts impatiently, rocking back on his heels. “Jesus, Zach. Just tell her.”
Zachary flinches, then looks down at my phone again, rubbing the back of his neck. “The painting…it got some media attention, Maya. A lot of media attention.” He avoids the hospital fluorescent lights, looking everywhere but at me. “Yourmom…she gave out your contact info to several health-focused reporters. They’ve been looking to interview you.”
He gestures toward the phone, which is still resting on the bed. Even from here, I can hear the soft, insistentding-ding-dingof notifications. A lot of emails. Voicemails. The calls I ignored while driving.
“A few articles have already dropped,” Zachary says, his voice flat with dread. “About the painting and your mom’s advocacy. And it’s blowing up on social media. Thousands of shares. It’s everywhere.”
My breath hitches. I gasp, a shallow, painful sound that doesn’t clear the suffocating weight in my chest. The truth, the one I spent years stuffing into a dark box, is now plastered across the internet, defining me for the world to see.
My secret is out.
Soon, Trevor will know. HR will know. The school board will know. My colleagues will know. My students, their parents, the community I tried so hard to build a normal life in. They’ll all know that the energetic, dedicated teacher they hired is actually a chronic patient, one flare-up away from being incapacitated. I will have nowhere left to go where I can just be Maya, the person, without the illness following like a visible shadow.
I start crying again, quieter this time, just a steady, hopeless stream of tears running into the pillow.
Zachary steps closer, resting a gentle hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Maya. They won’t let me stay, so I’ll stop by your place and feed Frida, give her some extra cuddles. If you need anything, let me know. I’ll be here immediately.”
Tim steps up to the bed and gently pats my hand. “We’d better be going, too. Get some rest. We’ll be thinking about you and sending healing vibes your way.”
I manage a small nod, touched by their kindness. “Thank you. All of you.” As they turn to leave, I remember Patty, whohas stood silently through my emotional breakdown and the bombshell revelation of my entire secret life.
I raise my hand slightly. “Patty? I’m so sorry. I know I ruined our double date.”
Patty laughs, a genuine, warm sound that fills the room and breaks the heavy tension. She waves her hand, brushing the apology away. “Don’t be silly. This is way more dramatic than eating pizza. We should reschedule. Once you’re feeling up to it, of course.”
A genuine smile touches my lips. “I would love that,” I tell her. “I really would.”
Zachary leans down and kisses my forehead, giving my shoulder a final squeeze. “Get some rest.” Then he follows Tim and Patty out, leaving the room quiet and bright again. The door clicks shut, and I stare up at the ceiling, still utterly exhausted, but with a new, strange kind of peace. Now, I just need to figure out who Maya is when my secret is out in the world.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Zachary
The drive home is a dark, cold blur. I can still smell the sterile scent of the hospital clinging to my clothes. I pull into the parking lot of our apartment building and sit for a full minute, the engine running, unable to turn the key. The lights in the lot illuminate the passenger seat, which seems impossibly empty now, a gaping hole where Maya should be. I finally cut the engine and the sudden, heavy silence rushes in.
I walk into the building going straight to Maya’s apartment to take care of Frida like I had promised. The apartment is quiet, a cruel contrast to the chaos I just left. Frida, Maya’s long, sleek ferret, slithers out from beneath the blanket fort on the rug, making a soft, insistent sound. She doesn't understand. She weaves around my ankles, sniffing my shoes, looking for Maya’s familiar scent, then tugging playfully at the cuff of my pants, demanding attention and explanation for her missing human.
“She’s okay, Frida. Just... resting,” I whisper, scooping her up so her long body drapes over my forearm. I rub her spine, feeling the smooth, musky velvet of her fur, but the lie feels hollow evento the animal. She looks at me with those dark, bead-like eyes, sensing the anxiety I tried to scrub off in the emergency room.
I close my eyes and take a deep, centering breath before moving to action.Don’t just stand here, stuff to do.
First, the ferret. I gently place her back on the floor and move to the kitchen. I unlatch her food container and place her specialized, high-protein kibble in the ceramic dish, the sound of the hard pellets hitting the bowl startlingly loud in the silence. Ferrets are obligate carnivores, and their diet is serious business, one of the few things Maya is absolutely meticulous about. Frida sniffs the bowl, then dives in.
While she’s munching, I pick up her water bowl, clean it out and refill it, then place it next to her food. Then I lean against the wall and watch her eat, the quick, focused motions of her head and body a temporary grounding sight. It’s a simple, achievable task, a win.
If I was at the hospital, I could hold Maya’s hand, try to distract her, or even fetch a cup of hot water to make her the Earl Grey tea she loves. Here, I’m just watching a ferret eat, completely useless. The self-reproach starts to bloom in my mind, a toxic flower. I should have pressed her harder to see her rheumatologist days ago. I saw the fatigue in her eyes, the way she winced when she reached for a coffee mug in the teacher’s lounge at school. I let her make thirty little pots and one big one in one night because she was so excited about it and insisted she could.She’s stubborn, Zachary, you know this, but you still should have tried harder.
Next, the shower. When Frida’s done, I grab one of her blankets, scoop her up and walk across the hall to my own apartment. After placing the ferret and her blanket on the couch, I head to the bathroom, strip off the clothes I put on for a fun, promised double date that never happened. They feel soiled, tainted by the panic and the antiseptic smell. The hot water hitsmy back, scalding at first, then settling into a constant, heavy rain. I stand under it for a long time, scrubbing my skin, trying to wash off the fear that still tastes metallic in the back of my throat.
I scrub my hair, my face, my arms, trying to strip away the helplessness. I failed. I wasn’t even there when she collapsed. Thank God Tim happened to be there, but I’m her partner, her advocate, and I wasn’t even there to keep her safe. Maybe driving is too much stress for her. If I had been driving instead of her, would she have stilled passed out? The internal monologue and berating are relentless; the warm spray of the shower does nothing to ease the tension in my body.
I emerge from the bathroom, towel wrapped around my waist, feeling marginally cleaner but infinitely more exhausted. I put on an old pair of sweatpants and a soft, worn, gray T-shirt—clothes that feel like comfort and safety. My apartment is unbearably quiet, even though I brought Frida over with me. She’s settled onto the couch, snuggled in her blanket, her chin resting on the cushion, waiting. I follow her lead, collapsing onto the opposite end, pulling a heavy, knitted throw over my legs. The fatigue is immense, a physical weight pinning me to the cushions.
My phone vibrates almost immediately. It’s Tim.
I pick up the phone, my fingers fumbling with the screen. It’s a simple, concerned text:You good, man?
