"You were drawing him?" she asked gently.
I wanted to deny it. Laugh. Shrug. But instead, I said, "I don't know why."
"You don't have to," she said.
We sat like that for a while. Her fingers drumming lightly on the bedrail. Me holding the sketchbook like it was confession and armor at once.
Then came the knock.
One sharp rap. Followed by the unmistakable jingle of keys.
My blood ran cold.
June was already on her feet, bag zipped in one motion.
"Closet?" she hissed.
I pointed. She dove in just as the door opened.
Nurse Karen peeked in, clipboard in hand. "Elena? You still awake?"
I faked a yawn. "Couldn't sleep."
Her eyes scanned the room. My heart was a ticking bomb.
"You want something to help you rest?"
"No," I said quickly. "I'll try again."
She nodded, lingering. Then left.
I waited ten full seconds before whispering, "Clear."
June burst out, flushed and breathless. "That was close."
"You almost died."
"Worth it," she said, breathless. "I mean, unless I'd dropped the cookies. Then maybe not."
I laughed again. It felt like rebellion.
She glanced at the clock. "Okay, I gotta go. My alibi expires in ten minutes."
I followed her to the door, then hesitated.
"June," I said. "Thank you."
She looked back, eyes soft. "Don't let them turn you into a ghost, Elena."
Then she was gone.
And I was left in the glowing quiet, holding a sketchbook and the memory of a smile I hadn't realized I needed.
____
Dinner came later than usual that night. The long shadows stretching over the hospital courtyard had already gone black when the nurse wheeled me into the private dining room. The room was quiet. Too quiet. No hum of machines, no clatter of trays—just the kind of silence that fills your ears and makes you want to scream just to prove you're still there.
Mother was seated at the head of the table, her posture so sharp it could've sliced the air in two. Her face was unreadable as always, the silverware in her hands reflecting the overhead lights like little scalpels. Beside her sat Father, his napkin neatly folded in his lap, a glass of red wine breathing beside his untouched plate.
And then Cassandra.
Glowing. Radiant. Draped in a silk robe the color of wilted roses, her hair still tousled from whatever gala or benefit she'd graced with her presence that evening. Her perfume was strong—sweet, choking—an announcement of her entrance and a warning all at once.
The nurse left me with a quick nod, and I felt the air around me turn colder. I took my seat at the far end, furthest from Father. The chair was too high for the table. The plate was too clean. The silverware was laid out with surgical precision.
No one said anything.
I adjusted my sleeves to hide the fresh bruises from this morning's bloodwork.
Cassandra was the one who finally broke the silence. "Father," she said sweetly, "did you hear what Dr. Klein said about me? He said I looked healthier than ever. That my bloodwork was immaculate."
Father's lips curled into something like a smile. "I'm not surprised. You've always been resilient. Even when you were a child."
My stomach sank.
He turned fully toward her now, his eyes softer than I had ever seen them. "You had the heart of a fighter, Cassandra. The rest of us only ever tried to keep up with you. And now, look at you. You carry yourself like your mother."
Cassandra blushed under the compliment. "That's the best thing you've ever said to me."
He chuckled quietly.
I couldn't help it—my eyes drifted up, searching his face for the slightest flicker of acknowledgment. Of me. That I was also here. That I had bled and bruised and lived in the shadows for years just to keep her glowing.
But he didn't look my way.
Not once.
Mother remained quiet, buttering her bread like she wasn't the architect of this particular hell. Her fingers moved slowly, delicately, as though anything faster would betray the indifference she clung to like armor.
I cut into my chicken. It was dry. Flavorless.
"So," Cassandra said between bites, "I was thinking of starting a blog. Something about chronic illness, but with a fashion angle. You know—educating people while staying glamorous."
"That's a brilliant idea," Father said without pause. "You've always had an eye for trends."
I couldn't take it anymore. "Maybe you should start by telling the truth."
It came out quieter than I meant, like an accidental breath. But the air in the room shifted instantly.
Cassandra froze, her fork halfway to her mouth.
Father's head turned, slowly.
Mother finally looked up.
"What did you say?" Cassandra asked, voice too light, too sharp.
I swallowed, hard. "I said maybe people deserve the truth. About what's been going on. About what I've been through."
Her laughter was cold and loud, echoing in the sterile walls of the room. "You think people want to read about your sad little hospital chronicles? Please."
"I think they might want to know the price I paid for your health."
"Enough," Mother said, not loudly, but enough to slice through us both.
I looked at her. Really looked. Her hands were back to the bread, pressing too hard now, crust crumbling under her palm.
"I'm not a mistake," I whispered. "I'm not just a resource."
Father's chair scraped the floor as he stood.
"You were given a purpose, Elena," he said without turning. "It's not our fault you refuse to find meaning in it."
Then he kissed Cassandra's forehead and left the room.
I sat frozen.
Cassandra leaned toward me, all sweetness gone from her voice. "You really should've known better. You don't get a seat at the table just because they fed you."
Then she laughed again—light, airy—and reached for her glass.
I didn't finish my meal.
I didn't sleep that night.