The hospital lights were too white.
Too clean.
Too calm for how loud Raven's mind was spiraling.
She sat on the edge of the examination bed, gripping the sleeve of her jersey with one hand, the other clenched into a fist against her thigh. The cold from the room seeped through her skin, but she didn't flinch.
Her coach had insisted she get checked. Said a faint like that, mid-game, wasn't just from nerves or heat.
The doctor stepped in, files in hand, eyes already reading her.
"Raven Ivanov Fernandez?"
She nodded, her voice gone.
He pulled up a stool, slow. Too slow.
"How long have you been hiding these symptoms?"
She blinked. "What symptoms?"
"Fainting. The blackouts. Numbness in your fingers. The chest pain you didn't mention until we pressed you for it. Headaches, fatigue, muscle tremors—"
"I'm just... tired," she muttered. "Overworked. It's normal."
He looked at her. Not pity. Worse. Concern.
"Raven, this isn't a normal case of fatigue. These are signs of neurological stress. Your body's showing anomalies. Your nervous system's been under pressure for weeks. One of your tests showed temporary loss of oxygen to the brain. If you'd collapsed any harder, it could've caused damage."
Her heartbeat spiked. "Brain damage?"
"Or worse."
A silence hit. Loud. Choking.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to taste blood.
"But I'm fine now, right?" she asked, voice cracking.
"You're lucky this time. Whatever you're doing the training, the stress, the pressure — it's pushing your body past its breaking point. If you keep going like this, it's not just basketball you'll lose."
Her hands curled into fists.
He continued, softer now. "You didn't tell anyone. Not your coach. Not your team. Not even your family. You've been carrying this alone."
A pause.
"...Is there a reason you think you have to?"
She stayed quiet. Eyes burning.
"You're not dying, Raven," he said. "But if you keep pretending like you can't...or shouldn't fall apart… it might get close."
He stood up, leaving the silence behind with her.
She stared at the wall, breathing in deep like it would keep her from shattering.
Her pulse thudded in her ears, drowning out the monitor's steady beep. That stupid beep. That reminder she was lying in a hospital bed instead of out there — training, playing, moving — being useful.
She rubbed at her arms, like she could shake the weight off. The weight of the doctor's voice, the words still clawing at her chest.
{Not just basketball you'll lose.
Brain damage.
You're not dying… but it might get close.}
"Shut up," she whispered into the empty room.
She stood up too fast, the IV yanking her arm slightly. Her feet hit the floor like thunder. She paced sharp turns, short breaths, fists clenched.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She knew her limits.
She'd trained harder. Fought harder. Survived worse.
And now her own body was betraying her?
"Are you kidding me?" she snapped, throwing her arms out, her voice breaking into the sterile air. "All that work..all those years...for this?"
Tears burned, but she didn't let them fall. No. Not now. Not yet.
She spun around, chest heaving, fury choking her.
Then—
CRACK.
Her fist slammed into the wall.
It wasn't even about pain. She didn't feel the sting in her knuckles. Just the explosion inside her.
She stood there, forehead pressed to the cold wall, breathing like she'd run a marathon.
But her feet weren't on the court.
They were in a damn hospital.
And all she wanted was to scream at the world until something gave.
"Why now," she whispered, her voice barely audible, shaking.
"Why now, when I'm finally—"
She stopped.
Blinked.
Her breath hitched, eyes glassy.
Because the door slammed open.
Chris.
Hair messy, shoes untied like he'd run the whole damn way. His chest rose and fell with panic, but it was his eyes that hit her hardest.
They weren't cold.
Not guarded. Not smirking. Not the usual cocky, unreadable Chris.
They were wide.
Worried.
Soft.
"Raven."
She froze like a deer in headlights.
His eyes flicked to her hand — the one still clenched, knuckles bruised and bleeding slightly. Then to the small dent in the wall. Then back to her.
She braced herself for a lecture.
For a joke.
For anything that would keep him in control.
But what she got was silence.
And then…
"Don't do that again," he said, voice low. But it wavered, not from anger.
From fear.
She turned away. "What, here to say I'm being dramatic?"
"today…" His voice cracked. "…seeing you like that. Still trying to be strong. Still trying to act like none of this is breaking you…"
His hand reached toward her but didn't touch.
And finally—finally—his walls crumbled. The Chris who always kept it cool, cocky, collected—his eyes were glassy. His breath was uneven.
She gulped.
Don't cry.
She was heartbroken to see his eyes glassy, his whole demeanor crumbling like he couldn't hold the weight anymore. Chris—the same Chris who never flinched during fights, who laughed off bruises—was breaking. Right in front of her.
She didn't let her soft part show.
Didn't let it win.
But her voice—
It still broke.
"Chris…" she whispered, swallowing down the lump in her throat. "Don't—"
Her eyes flicked up, saw the tear sliding down his cheek.
"Don't cry."
It came out softer than she meant. Not a command. A plea.
His breath hitched. He turned away for a second, dragging a palm across his face like he could erase the emotion. Like he could still pretend. But his shoulders were shaking.
"Damn it, Chris," she muttered, stepping closer, fists clenched at her sides. "Why are you crying? I'm the one who's—who's messed up right now. I should be the one falling apart."
He looked at her finally, eyes red, voice raw.
"Because I can't fix this."
And there it was.
The thing he never said.
Not even when they broke up.
Not even when he watched her walk away that day in the rain, jaw tight, hands in his pockets like they didn't want to reach for her.
She blinked fast.
"You don't have to fix it," she said, voice barely a whisper. "I just... I needed you to stay."
And this time, when the silence dropped between them, it wasn't cold.
It was full of everything they never said.
And the everything they still felt.
____
And for the first time in forever, silence spoke louder than goodbye.