As Neo sat alone in the dusty silence, a sound broke through his thoughts. A siren, getting louder and more urgent every second. He climbed onto a pile of old boxes and looked through the room's dirty window. On the street below, an ambulance raced past the school, its red and blue lights flashing wildly.
A cold feeling of fear washed over Neo. Ambulances meant something had gone terribly wrong.
His mind immediately went to his best friend, Ryan. Ryan was the picture of perfection, everything Neo wasn't. He was a great student and popular, always dressed in clean, perfect clothes. He cared a lot about his reputation and his health, never eating anything that could possibly make him sick. Ryan's goal was to seem perfect to everyone, including his own parents. He wanted the world to see a version of him that had no weaknesses at all. Most importantly, he was the only person who ever loved Neo's imaginary worlds, defending the quiet boy and seeing the writer hidden inside.
Ryan truly cared about his friendship with Neo, but he was always worried about what other people would think. When it was just the two of them, he was Neo's biggest fan and loved talking about his creative ideas. But in a group, Ryan would get nervous. He would gently change the subject to normal things like sports or schoolwork. He wasn't trying to show off; he was trying to protect Neo from being judged by their classmates, which would protect his own reputation too.
He gave Neo advice on how to fit in better because he honestly thought that if Neo acted a little less different, other people would see how great he really was. Being Neo's protector made Ryan feel good about himself—it was proof that he was a loyal and good friend. That feeling was so important to him that he tried to keep up this perfect picture of their friendship, even if it meant he was asking Neo to not fully be himself.
But Ryan had vanished from school weeks ago. There was no explanation, just an empty desk where his perfectly neat books used to be. He had left without telling anyone, not even Neo, leaving behind a confusing silence. At first, watching the ambulance, Neo's mind refused the thought. It can't be Ryan. Ryan is never sick. He's too careful, too perfect.
But as the ambulance sped toward the hospital, the two mysteries—the sudden siren and Ryan's silent disappearance—crashed together in his mind. He had a horrible thought: what if the only reason someone so obsessed with his image would just disappear was because he had a problem so big it couldn't be hidden?
His heart pounded. He pulled out his old phone and called Ryan's number. It rang and rang, but no one answered. The silence on the other end of the line was the only answer he needed. Panic shot through him. He had to get to his friend.
He scrambled down from the window and threw himself against the storage room door, but it wouldn't move. He shook the handle, slamming his shoulder against the wood again and again. It was useless. He remembered the metallic click he'd heard earlier—the bullies had locked him in from the outside. He was trapped. A wave of heavy sadness hit him, so strong it took his breath away. There was nothing he could do but sink back to the floor, surrounded by the school's forgotten junk, his mind screaming Ryan's name.
Inside the busy hospital, Ryan's parents ran next to his stretcher, their faces a mask of confusion and fear. Doctors and nurses surrounded him, shouting medical words as they rushed through the crowded hallways to the emergency room. Ryan was getting sicker every minute.
He had a very serious heart problem called coronary artery disease (CAD). Simply put, the tubes that carried blood to his heart were getting too narrow, and his heart wasn't getting the blood it needed to survive. It was a cruel twist for a boy who treated his body like a perfect temple. If it went untreated, it could cause terrible pain and his heart could fail.
"We need to move him to the ICU, now!" a head doctor ordered, his voice tense. They knew this disease was often a death sentence; very few people had survived it. As they got Ryan ready for intensive care, the doctor turned to his terrified parents.
"We'll do everything we can," he promised, his eyes full of sad understanding. "We will try our absolute best to save his life."
The scene changed to the quiet, clean room of the Intensive Care Unit. There, among the steady beeps of machines, Ryan lay on the bed, perfectly still. He couldn't speak, couldn't move, and was unconscious. The boy who had spent his whole life building an image of perfect strength was now completely helpless, his perfect world broken by a problem he could no longer hide.