Instead he simply asked, “How do you manage it?”
Not what’s wrong with you?
Not I’m sorry.
How do you manage it?
Like I was still capable and still whole.
I looked at him then, really looked.
“You don’t see me differently?” I asked.
His brow furrowed slightly. “Why would I?”
I swallowed. “Most people do.”
He shook his head once. “You’re still you.”
A simple response that settled me in a way nothing ever had. Sickle cell was humiliating and often stripped me of my ability to feel human instead of like a lab experiment.
That’s when my feelings shifted for him. Not dramatically and not all at once. He’d always been attractive and smart. But when you were given a chance to really know Calil Black. Everything about him said BDE. Something in the air between us changed.
Our conversations lingered longer. His touches, when they happened, were careful. The energy between us was charged. A hand at the small of my back that stayed a second too long. Fingers brushing mine when passing a glass.
Eyes holding mine just long enough to make my pulse stutter. The tension continued to build as we got closer. It felt provocative but beautiful. Dangerous but delicate. And I knew exactly what it was.
I just refused to cross it because of her. I loved Zaria and no matter what I felt blooming between me and Calil—betraying Zaria was not negotiable. She was not something I would risk especially for curiosity and desire that was potentially fleeting.
Not even for something that felt like it could become more. So I held the line. Even when it got hot and hard. Even when his voice dropped low and soft in conversation. Even when his hand lingered and I wanted it to explore. Even when my body responded in ways I couldn’t ignore. I choose her every time. Honoring the love she gives to me freely is always easy.
But that night at Caleb’s house. Zaria and I ended up in the bathroom with Calil finding pleasure in ways I’d only imagined. The tension the three of us had been dancing around finally had nowhere to go.
No room to hide.
And for the first time—I hesitated. Not because I didn’t want him. But because I knew if we crossed that line, nothing would ever be simple again and it wasn’t.
Confined to this bed as the pain creeps in quietly. A tightening deep in my bones and a dull ache that feels almost familiar enough to ignore. I know better than to trust it. By the time the nurse pushes medication through my IV, I’m already curled inward. My breathing is shallow with my jaw clenched as I stare at the same ceiling tiles I have stared at for most of my life.
I have been a prisoner in my body for as long as I can remember.
Whenever I’m allowed to forget that fact and whenever I let myself believe I’m free, sickle cell makes sure to remind me it’s never far away. A vaso-occlusive crisis does not negotiate. It never waits for convenience or care about preparation. It arrives with a violence that feels deeply personal, as if my blood itself has decided to rebel.
The pain spreads through my limbs, settles into my joints, radiates through my hips and spine. It feels like my body is folding in on itself, every nerve lit, every movement punished. I breathe through it the way I was taught, slow and measured, but there is nothing graceful about surviving this. There is only endurance.
Hospitals are as familiar to me as my childhood bedroom once was. The antiseptic smell. The steady beeping of monitors. The practiced concern in doctors’ voices. This place has shaped me as much as any home ever could.
As a child, I learned early that normal was not meant for me.
I missed birthday parties because I could not get out of bed. I watched friendships fade because pain does not allow for consistency. You cannot promise to show up when your body refuses to cooperate. Other kids did not know what to dowith my unpredictability, and I did not know how to explain it without feeling broken.
There were years where I spent more time in hospital rooms than playgrounds. My social life existed in fragments, cards taped to walls, brief visits, nurses who remembered my name. While other girls learned how to be carefree, I learned how to measure pain, how to advocate for myself, how to swallow disappointment without crying.
People’s faces always changed when they learned about my disease. Their eyes softened, their voices lowered, their sympathy became heavy and suffocating. It felt like being reduced to a cautionary tale.
Oh poor Lena.
Her body fights itself.
