The hand I drew depicts kindness, capability.
Then a pair of eyes.
I didn't even realize what I was doing until I shaded the curve of his smile. And by then, it was too late.
It was him.
Rendered in charcoal and ink and wonder.
I should've torn the page out. I should've thrown it away.
But I didn't.
Because it was mine. That moment. That smile. No one could take it from me.
I went to sleep that night with my sketchbook hidden under the mattress. As if someone might steal it. As if it mattered that much.
And maybe—it did.
____
I hated how sterile the hospital felt—how even the moonlight through the narrow window above my bed wasn't enough to change the sharpness of the walls. Nights were the worst. Too quiet. Too long. Too full of thoughts.
I sat on the windowsill with a blanket around my shoulders. The silence buzzed louder than the machines. I should have been asleep, but sleep rarely came willingly anymore. I didn't cry—I learned early on that tears were currency, and I had none left to spend.
So I stared at the streetlight flickering outside, counting its uneven blinks like a rhythm to keep me tethered.
Then I heard it—soft, distinct. A shuffle. Not the practiced footsteps of nurses or the authoritative stride of doctors. These were cautious, like someone dodging puddles or secrets.
I froze. My door was supposed to be locked.
A shadow darted past the glass panel.
Then a gentle knock. Not like staff. Two taps, pause, one tap. The secret code.
"June?" I whispered, sliding off the sill.
The door creaked open slowly, and there she was—hoodie too big, curls tucked under a beanie, eyes lit with mischief and something warm. She had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder like a mission-ready spy.
"You're supposed to be sleeping," she grinned.
I blinked at her, half in disbelief. "You're supposed to be normal. What are you doing here?"
She held up the bag like a trophy. "Midnight rescue mission. You looked like a ghost last time I visited. Time to fix that."
Before I could scold or thank her, she slipped inside and shut the door with the stealth of a pro. Her eyes scanned the corners, then settled on me.
"You're not going to snitch, are you?" she whispered dramatically.
"I haven't snitched on you since we were eight," I said, a laugh escaping before I could stop it.
Her grin widened.
She dumped the bag on the hospital bed, unzipped it like she was unearthing treasure. The scent hit me first—salt, cheese, chocolate. A mix of rebellion and comfort.
"Okay," she said, pulling out item after item. "Sour cream chips, three kinds of cookies, mini donuts, a very questionable burrito, and... one slice of actual fruit, because I care."
I gawked. "You're insane."
"You're welcome," she said smugly, tossing me a granola bar like a trophy.
I caught it. "How did you even get in here?"
"Let's just say I flirted with the security guard and pretended to be a tearful cousin. I cried, Lena. Real tears. I deserve an Oscar."
I smiled again—honest and aching. "Why'd you come?"
She looked at me like I was dense. "Because you're you. Because I know you're not okay even when you pretend to be. Because this place feels like it's eating you alive and someone's gotta sneak in light."
I didn't know what to say to that. The knot in my throat grew.
She walked over, sat on the bed, legs dangling. "Sit."
I hesitated, then joined her.
She handed me a cookie. "This is step one in my 'Save Elena from Losing Her Damn Mind' campaign."
I bit into it. It was stale. It was perfect.
We ate in silence for a while. It wasn't awkward—it was familiar. The kind of quiet that meant understanding, not absence.
Then she nudged me. "Tell me something. Anything. Lie if you have to. I just wanna hear your voice sound like yours again."
So I told her how Nurse Karen accidentally wore two different shoes yesterday. How I found a heart-shaped cloud through the window the other morning. How one of the IV machines beeped to the rhythm of a pop song.
And how today, for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel invisible when I walked the hallway.
She listened like it all mattered. Like I mattered.
Then, her voice softer, she asked, "Did you see him again?"
I didn't have to ask who she meant.
I nodded slowly. "Just for a second. He passed me in the hall. Didn't say anything. Just… looked at me. And smiled."
She raised an eyebrow. "Ooh. A smile? This is getting spicy."
I rolled my eyes, but heat rose to my cheeks. "It was nothing."
"Nothing is where everything begins," she said seriously, then smirked. "Was it a 'hey-you-look-nice' smile or a 'wow-you're-stunning-even-in-a-hospital-gown' smile?"
I swatted her with a pillow.
She laughed, a sound I hadn't heard in too long. I needed it more than air.
Then the tone shifted, subtly. She grew quiet, thoughtful.
"I don't like how they look at you, Lena. The staff. Even the ones who are nice. It's like… you're a chart, not a person."
I swallowed. "I'm used to it."
"You shouldn't have to be."
I didn't answer. Because what could I say? That being born a 'solution' meant never being seen as anything else? That when your blood was someone else's cure, your own pain stopped mattering?
She reached into the bag again, pulled out a small sketchbook. My sketchbook. "You left this last time. I kept it safe."
My heart thumped. "I didn't even notice it was gone."
"Of course you didn't. You're too busy surviving."
She handed it to me, then paused.
"Page six," she said.
I opened it. Page six held a half-finished drawing—Noah's profile, caught mid-turn, soft lines, shaded eyes, unfinished smile.
I froze.