Yara's standing at the foot of my bed with her arms crossed, wearing her "you've got to be kidding me" expression. I've seen it often. It's practically part of her uniform now.

"Absolutely not," she says.

"But Yaraaaa—" I stretch her name like caramel, dramatic and sugary. "It's just the aquarium room! That's, like, twenty feet away!"

"It's thirty-two," Calian mutters without looking up from his sketchbook.

"Thirty-two feet," Yara repeats, unimpressed, "and three corridors full of bacteria that your heart doesn't need."

I pout. "I'll wear a mask. Two masks. I'll bathe in sanitizer. I'll bubble wrap myself."

"You need to rest, Eli," she says firmly. "You had a major episode less than forty-eight hours ago."

"Resting is boring," I groan, flopping backward. "Everyone's in the aquarium room! Charlotte's down there right now with the new girl—the one who just moved in next to her. She's showing her the fish and the neon corals and everything! And I'm stuck up here like Rapunzel without the hair."

Yara sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You are not sneaking off again."

"I wasn't sneaking! I was... pre-escaping."

"Eliora—"

"Please," I beg, clasping my hands together. "Just for a few minutes? I need to see the fish. They miss me. The clownfish told me telepathically."

Calian snorts quietly from his bed, which earns him my immediate attention. I twist toward him, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Actually," I say suddenly, sitting up straighter, "I could go if I had supervision!"

Yara looks skeptical. "Supervision?"

"Yes!" I point dramatically toward Calian. "He can come with me!"

Calian's head snaps up. "What?"

"Perfect idea, right?" I say quickly. "He's responsible, quiet, and extremely boring—uh, I mean careful!"

Yara blinks. "You're volunteering him?"

"Of course!" I beam. "He'll make sure I don't touch anything or lick any walls or dance with the koi!"

Calian sets his pencil down slowly, eyes narrowing. "Excuse me?"

"You'd love it!" I insist. "You can bring your sketchbook. Draw the fish! Or me next to the fish. Or me as a fish."

"I'm not sure those are my subjects," he says flatly.

"Sketch," I plead, leaning toward him. "Please? You don't even have to talk! Just sit there and glare at anyone who gets too close to me."

"That I can do," he mutters, then realizes what he's just said. "Wait. No—"

Yara bursts out laughing before she can stop herself, quickly covering her mouth. "Oh, Calian. You have no idea what you just signed up for."

"I didn't—" he starts, but it's too late.

I gasp dramatically, clutching my chest. "You'd do that for me? My hero!"

"I said—" he tries again.

"He said yes!" I declare triumphantly. "See, Yara? Look at us! A responsible duo! Beauty and the Brooder! We'll be back in an hour—"

"Forty-five minutes," Yara cuts in, shaking her head, still smiling despite herself. "Mask. Wheelchair. No exceptions."

I squeal, throwing my hands in the air. "YES! Aquarium adventure unlocked!"

Yara sighs, muttering, "You're going to be the death of me," but there's no real anger in it—just relief.
Relief that I'm still fighting. Still me.

Calian's still sitting there, blinking like he just walked into a tornado made of glitter and guilt.

"What just happened?" he asks quietly.

I grin. "You, my dear Sketch, got promoted to chaperone."

He rubs a hand over his face. "I hate this promotion."

"You'll love it," I say, winking. "There's fish. And me."

He exhales, resigned. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

— Calian's POV —

Eliora insisted on wheeling herself to the aquarium room. Of course she did. Yara told her to take it slow, but "slow" doesn't exist in Eliora's vocabulary.

I walk beside her anyway, one hand hovering near the wheelchair handle—just in case.

The hallway smells faintly like disinfectant and lemon soap. Every sound feels too loud: the squeak of rubber soles, the rhythmic beeping from distant rooms, her laughter echoing off the walls.

I don't like hospitals. They're too bright, too sterile, too full of things I can't control. But walking beside her makes it... less sharp somehow.

She waves at everyone we pass.
Everyone.

"Hi, Nurse Jenna! Love your scrubs today!"
"Hey, Mr. Thompson! Don't you dare win bingo again without me!"
"Oh my gosh, is that a new vending machine guy? You're my hero!"

People laugh. Smile. Respond. And she beams back at each of them like they're the best thing that's happened to her all week.

I don't understand it. How someone with a failing heart can have so much of it to give away.

She talks the whole time. About fish. About how the vending machine downstairs has "a weirdly spiritual energy." About how Charlotte made a new friend in her ward. Her voice bounces from one topic to another like sunlight skipping across water.

I'm not used to this kind of noise. It should bother me—too many words, too much movement, too unpredictable. But it doesn't. Not when it's her.

"You're awfully quiet," she says, craning her neck to look up at me.

"I'm always quiet," I tell her.

"Yeah, but today you're quiet and smiling. That's progress."

I blink, surprised. I hadn't realized I was smiling. I fix my expression quickly. "You're imagining things."

"Nope," she says. "Caught you. It's official. You like me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing!" she chirps.

It's not, but arguing with her is like trying to stop a river with my hands. Pointless—and weirdly comforting.

She keeps waving at people. Keeps talking. Keeps being. And I keep watching.

She's all color and noise and motion. Lavender hair catching the light, voice filling the space like music.
Everywhere she goes, people soften. Even the ones who don't know her smile when she passes.

I don't think she realizes what she does to a room.
How she rearranges it just by being in it.

When we reach the aquarium room, she pushes the doors open with a triumphant little "ta-da!" and the air shifts.

It's quieter here. Dimmer. Blue light rippling over the floor like moving glass.

She rolls closer to one of the big tanks, pressing her palms against the cool surface. "Look at them," she whispers. "They don't even realize how beautiful they are."

I stop a few steps behind her. Fish drift through the light — silver, gold, violet — weightless and slow. Their movements are hypnotic.

Eliora tilts her head, eyes bright. "It's like watching color learn how to breathe."

I don't know what to say to that. I never do when she says things like that. I just... feel it.

She laughs softly and waves to the fish like they're old friends. She talks to them, too — about how Charlotte's new friend is "sweet and shy," about how she's going to name one of the angelfish Lemon Drop, about how someday she'll go see the swans for real.

I just listen. It's easier than speaking. I've never met anyone who could make silence feel so full.

She glances over her shoulder at me. "You like it?"

I nod. "It's... nice."

She grins. "That's high praise coming from you."

I huff a quiet laugh through my nose. "I don't usually like bright places."

"Maybe that's why you need them more," she says gently. "You can't live in grayscale forever, Sketch."

The words land somewhere deep and unfamiliar.
She doesn't know it, but every time she talks like that, she pulls something out of me I didn't realize I'd buried.

I watch her reflection in the glass—soft, glowing, alive. She's everything I'm not. And somehow, sitting in this blue-lit room with her, it doesn't feel wrong.

It just feels like breathing.