Not weak. Not fragile. Just… worn.
Her clothes hang loosely on her frame. Her hair is pulled back. Her eyes still bright but edged with the kind of exhaustion you only get from fighting your own body. The hospital smell hasn’t fully left her yet. Or maybe that’s just my imagination refusing to relax.
I step inside carefully, as if my presence might bruise her.
“How you feeling?” I ask, already moving toward her.
She smiles gently. “I’m upright. That’s progress.”
Lena had a way of minimizing the storm and always bringing sunshine. My Soleil.
We settle on the couch as she tucks herself beneath a blanket. I’m close enough that our knees touch. I don’t even try to hide the worry in my voice.
“What are the doctors saying?”
She exhales slowly. “I’ve been fighting vaso-occlusive crises for years, Z. It’s taken a toll on my body. My spleen is compromised and so are my kidneys.”
Pain settles deeply in my heart.
My stomach drops. “Compromised how? What does that mean? Do you need a transplant? You can have one of my kidneys. I’m serious.”
Her brows lift, surprised and a little amused at my spiraling.
“It’s ok Z,” she says softly, taking my hands. “We’re not there. They’re monitoring and adjusting meds. It’s complicated but not yet catastrophic”
That doesn’t make me feel better. For Lena I pretend it does.
“What can we do?” I press. “What do you need?”
“I need you not to panic,” she says, squeezing my fingers. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”
Before I can argue further, there’s a knock at the door.
Calil.
He steps inside with flowers and soup from Olive & Oak. His face holds a seriousness that mirrors mine. Still oozing swagger but without the smirk. Only concern.
“How are you, Baby?” he asks immediately, crouching near her like he needs to see her up close to believe she’s okay.
She gives him the same summary she gave me.
His jaw tightens. “What does that mean long term? What are they planning? Do we need specialists? Trials? Something more aggressive?”
There it is. The same panic I felt. Except his is circumfused in calm logic instead of raw emotion.
“I’m here,” he says firmly. “However you need. Appointments. Research. Financially. Anything.”
Lena looks between us, her eyes softening in a way that makes my chest swell.
“Enough,” she says gently. “I promise you, my medical team is handling it. I’m not dying tomorrow. I need you two to breathe.”
We both fall quiet—reluctantly.
She shifts, sitting up a little straighter, eyes flicking between us with new intent.
“I don’t want this visit to just be about my health,” she says. “I want to talk about us.”
The word crashes into the room like the Kool-Aid man on an episode of Family Guy.
