No answer. I shove the laptop aside and take the stairs two at a time. “Mom! Mom, are you okay?” When I reach her bedroom doorway, the world tilts. She’s on the floor.
“Oh my god—Mom!”
“Nora, honey…” Her voice trembles. “I’m okay. I just… need a little help.”
The quiver in her voice tells me she’s not okay. I know it before I kneel beside her. When I try to help her sit up, her leg starts to shake—hard, uncontrollable tremors that send fear slicing through me. Her MS flare ups. They happen. We manage. But tonight is different.
“You’re not okay,” I say, my voice breaking. “What happened?”
“I was just getting out of bed to grab a glass of water.” Her voice shakes. “I guess my legs decided not to cooperate.”
“I’m calling your doctor.” My hands shake as I grab my phone. I talk too fast and lose words all while trying to stay calm while everything inside me caves in.
At the hospital, time stops behaving like time. It stretches and blurs into fluorescent lights, hushed voices, and the steady beep of a monitor that’s too loud and not loud enough all at once. Eventually, Mom is settled. Stabilized.
I sit beside her bed with my arms wrapped around myself, as if I can physically hold everything together if I squeeze hard enough. This is the part I always do alone—the paperwork, the forms, listening while doctors explain this is part of the disease. I’ve built my life around being strong enough for both of us. Especially after my dad left when things got hard.
By midafternoon, Mom stirs. She turns her head toward me. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say, resting my hand over hers. Her skin is cool, slightly clammy. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” she murmurs. “But okay.”
They ran tests as soon as we arrived, trying to pinpoint what triggered the flare. Around six in the morning, she finally fell asleep. I didn’t. I sat there, watching her chest rise and fall.
“Do you need anything?” I ask softly.
Before she can answer, a nurse steps in to check her vitals. I slip out in search of caffeine and something that vaguely qualifies as food. When I return, balancing a cafeteria tray, I push the door open mid-rant. “You know, they really need a fast-food place in here. The options are?—”
I look up. And stop breathing. Miles is sitting in the chair beside my mom’s bed. The tray wobbles in my hands, and I grip it tighter before gravity finishes the job.
He stands immediately, concern written all over his face. “I heard about your mom. From Rylee.” His voice softens. “I just… wanted to make sure you were both okay.”
Traitor Rylee for telling Miles after I messaged her saying I couldn’t make my shift today.
“He brought flowers and snacks,” Mom adds, far too cheerfully for the emotional ambush I just walked into.
“And,” Miles rubs the back of his neck, “there’s a bag of Fireballs for you too.”
My thoughts scatter as if someone just hit puree. Miles is here. In the hospital. With snacks.
Our eyes connect. “Nora, can we talk?”
“Oh wow—look at the time,” I blurt, setting the tray down too fast. “I—I have to go. I’ll be back later, Mom.”
“Nora, wait—” she starts.
I don’t. I turn and walk out before everything crashes down at once. I don’t know why Miles is here. He shouldn’t be here. I can’t handle this—not him showing up like he cares. I move fast down the hallway, my shoes squeaking loudly against the floor.
“Nora!”
My name echoes down the hall. When I reach the elevator, I stab the down button. He got everything he wanted. That was the plan. So why does it hurt this much? I stare at the digital floor numbers. Seven… Six… the numbers crawl down, but Miles is already closing the distance.
“I should’ve taken the stairs,” I mutter.
“Nora.”
My name is barely a whisper. I force myself to meet his gaze even though everything in me wants to fold. “I can’t do this. Not right now.”
