The overhead lights in my hospital room buzzed faintly, a low hum that matched the ringing in my ears. I lay stiff on the mattress, the blankets twisted around my legs like vines that refused to let go. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Father kissing Cassandra's forehead and walking out of the room like I hadn't existed at all. I saw Mother's cold hands crushing bread like it had committed a crime. I saw Cassandra's smirk. Heard her laugh.
I didn't cry.
Crying gave them too much power.
When dawn broke, its light filtered through the narrow blinds like guilt under a locked door. I sat up slowly, my joints stiff from both sleep deprivation and the swelling in my arms from yesterday's tests. My IV line tugged as I reached for the sketchpad June had hidden under the mattress two nights ago—right after sneaking in with crackers and forbidden soda.
June. She hadn't shown up last night. For the first time since she'd found a way to bypass the night nurses, she hadn't crept in.
The thought chilled me.
I stared at the sketchpad for a long while before flipping it open. I wasn't sure what I wanted to draw—maybe I didn't want to draw anything. Maybe I just wanted to tear out pages. Or maybe I wanted to sketch a version of me that didn't need to bite her tongue through every dinner.
Instead, I drew Father's hands. Sharp. Immaculate. Uncalloused.
I was halfway through shading in the creases on his knuckles when a knock startled me.
It wasn't June's knock.
It wasn't even the usual nurse.
I looked up and froze.
Cassandra.
She stood in the doorway with the kind of posture they teach debutantes. Her eyes skimmed the room like it offended her. "You look like hell," she said.
"Thanks," I murmured, flipping the sketchpad shut.
She walked in without being invited, brushing past the IV stand like it wasn't even there. "Mother wants you ready for a new blood panel by nine. She says the last sample might've been 'contaminated by stress hormones.'"
I said nothing.
Cassandra's gaze lingered on the sketchpad. "Still drawing your little ghosts?"
"Still pretending to care about anyone but yourself?"
Her mouth twitched. "You're bitter."
"You're welcome."
She took a seat beside the bed, her perfume dragging in like a thundercloud.
"I came to warn you," she said after a beat.
I stared at her.
She leaned in. "They're discussing options. Real options. If you keep pushing like this, they're going to cut you out entirely."
"I thought they already did."
"Not fully. Not yet." Her voice was too calm, too rehearsed. "But if you keep making scenes—dinner last night, the interviews you hinted at—"
"I haven't spoken to anyone."
"Yet." She stood again, brushing nonexistent lint from her sleeve. "But you're thinking about it. I see it in your face. Just know, if you go down that road, there's no coming back."
"I wasn't planning on returning anyway."
She paused at the door, almost pitying me. "You think this place is a cage. But for someone like you, it's the only thing keeping you from falling apart."
Then she was gone.
---
The blood test came and went, performed with extra care by a new nurse who didn't ask questions. I kept my face blank, even as the needle slipped in too deep and the band tightened too hard. By the time they wheeled me back into my room, the sun was high, and I felt like a peeled orange—tender, raw, and stripped of something important.
I didn't pick up the sketchpad again.
Around four, just as I was drifting toward sleep, there was a sound—gentle, almost unnoticeable—music.
Soft, piano notes floating through the hallway.
I blinked hard. The sound wasn't coming from the speakers. No, it was closer. More alive.
I pushed myself upright and craned toward the open door.
The music was coming from Noah's office.
Sliding off the bed, I steadied myself on the IV pole. I hadn't seen him since that day in the hallway. The day he smiled at me like I was someone worth noticing. But this… this was different.
Barefoot, I shuffled down the hall, letting the music guide me. Every note was like a thread pulling me forward—gentle, hesitant, full of things unsaid.
I reached his door. It was open just a crack. I peeked in.
Noah sat at the piano tucked against the back wall, a dim lamp casting shadows over his face. His fingers moved like they were telling a story only he understood. There were sheet music pages on the desk, but he wasn't using them.
He was playing from memory.
From feeling.
I didn't mean to stay.
But I stood there, half-hidden, breath shallow, heart loud.
Then—
"Elena?"
I spun, startled. It wasn't Noah.
It was June, crouching behind the hallway curtain like a stowaway caught mid-mission.
She grinned sheepishly and whispered, "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"What are you doing here?" I whispered back.
She pulled out a bag of cookies like it was contraband. "I missed yesterday. I had to sneak past two extra security guards tonight just to bring you these."
The piano music faded.
I looked toward Noah's door—but it was already shut.
Gone.
I wasn't sure if I'd ever hear him play again.
But I followed June back to my room anyway, clutching the cookies like a lifeline.
We chatted for a while. I felt happy, knowing that there's someone I can talk to, someone who doesn't see me as a threat nor collateral damage.
Some minutes into the chat, June excused herself.
The cookie crumbs were still on my sheets when June showed up again—this time with a duffel bag too large for snacks.
It was the middle of the afternoon. A nurse had just left my room, having checked my vitals and noted my blood pressure was "unusually low," which I took as a compliment.