His expression doesn’t shift much. “It’s something that needs to be discussed. Kiera’s rapid decline is of concern, and she might not make it through the night…”
The rest of his words fade.
The room blurs at the edges.
‘She might not make it through the night.’
Oh fuck! I can’t breathe.
The walls feel like they’re pressing in.
The machines are too loud.
The air is too thin.
I can’t stand here.
I can’t listen to him talk about my sister like she’s already gone.
Letting go of Kiera’s hand feels like ripping something out of my chest, but I stumble backward anyway. “I need air,” I mutter, though I’m not sure anyone hears me and I bolt.
Out of the room.
Down the corridor.
The words chase me.
‘She might not make it through the night.’
She can’t die.
She can’t.
A world without my beautiful sister is not a world I want to exist in.
I push through the hospital doors and stagger into the cold air outside. The chill hits my lungs, sharp and grounding, but it doesn’t clear the fog. I find a bench without really seeing it and collapse onto it, elbows braced on my knees. “Fuck!” The shout tears out of me, raw and cracked.
Kiera.
My precious sister.
Everything I’ve done—every gamble, every risk, every sacrifice—was for her, and it still might not be enough.
My vision blurs as tears spill freely now, unchecked. I tip my head back and stare at the sky, desperate for something steady.
That’s when I see it.
The brightest star, sitting close to the moon.
The sight punches the air from my lungs.
Stage Rock.
That night.
The memory flickers to life so vividly it almost hurts, and for a fraction of a second, the crushing weight on my chest eases. Because I swear I can feel Effa with me, even from miles away.
Like she’s holding me together.
