Bed rest.
Two whole hours of it.

I swear the clock moves slower on purpose.

Charlotte's back in her room, probably actually resting like a good patient. Calian's already asleep, one arm draped over his chest, the other still loosely holding his sketchbook like he fell asleep mid-thought. Even his breathing is soft and even — steady in a way mine never is.

The room is too still. Too quiet.

And I'm buzzing.

It's like my brain didn't get the memo that my body's supposed to rest. The thoughts keep piling up — fast, tangled, overlapping.

Did I eat lunch? I think I did. Oh, I miss Charlotte already. Maybe I should write her a note. Wait, what if I start learning origami? I could fold paper cranes like in that movie. But I'd probably mess up the wings. My heart hurts. Not bad, just weird. Why does quiet always make it worse?

I flip my pillow over. Then back again. Then fluff it for the third time because apparently, that's going to fix something.

The monitor beside me hums its steady beep.
I stare at the ceiling tiles. They look like clouds if you squint hard enough.

My foot starts tapping before I even realize it.
Tap. Tap. Tap.

I glance at Calian. Still asleep. How does he do that? How does anyone just... turn their brain off?

I try to close my eyes, but my mind keeps spinning faster. Every thought multiplies until I can't separate them anymore — worries, memories, fragments of conversation.

I think about my heart — how fragile it feels lately. About the sound it made this morning, that heavy, slow beat like it's working through syrup. I think about Charlotte's legs, and Calian's lungs, and how everything feels like a countdown in here.

And I hate countdowns.

So I sit up. The nurse in my head is screaming "stay in bed!" but my body doesn't care. I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress, my toes barely brushing the floor.

The world tilts a little — that dizzy feeling that always comes when I move too fast. I steady myself on the rail and breathe through it.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I look over at Calian again. He looks peaceful, like the kind of calm that can't exist in my body. I want to reach across the space between us and borrow some of it — just a minute of his quiet.

Instead, I whisper, "How do you sleep when your brain won't shut up?"

He doesn't stir. Of course he doesn't.

I sigh, staring at my IV line, the gentle drip-drip rhythm. It's weird how something so small keeps you alive. How you can be tethered to a machine and still crave more life.

I lie back down, even though my skin feels too tight for me, like I'm buzzing from the inside out.

I start counting ceiling tiles.
1, 2, 3, 4...
It doesn't help.

Then I start whispering to myself. "You're okay. You're fine. You're okay."

It's something I do when my thoughts get loud — talk over them until they quiet down.

Across the room, Calian shifts in his sleep, murmuring something I can't make out. His voice is soft, rough, like the sound of pages turning.

For a second, the noise in my head slows down.
Just a little.

I close my eyes and listen to the beeping and his breathing, and try to imagine what it feels like to be at peace.

Maybe one day, I'll know. Maybe one day, my heart will stop racing even when I'm still.

I last exactly eight minutes before giving up.

Bed rest is torture. My brain is doing cartwheels, my legs feel like they're vibrating, and my mouth is literally itching to say something. Anything.

Calian's still asleep in his bed, half turned toward the window, one arm across his chest, the other draped around his sketchbook like it's a teddy bear. His breathing is slow, deep — the kind that sounds like peace.

I stare at him for a long second and whisper to myself, "How do people just... do that?"

He looks so calm it almost makes me jealous. His hair's a little messy, a strand falling across his forehead. There's this softness to him when he sleeps — the hard edges gone, all the quiet turned gentle.

My heart squeezes a little.
Ugh. Gross. Feelings.

My gaze slides down to his sketchbook, the one resting in his hand. It's half open — pages fanned just enough that I can see pencil marks, but not the actual drawings.

My fingers twitch.

No. Don't do it. That's his private stuff. He'd hate that. Respect boundaries, Eliora.

But my brain doesn't care about boundaries. It's whispering: Just one peek. One tiny peek. He won't even notice.

I bite my lip and stare at the book like it's a cursed treasure chest.

"I shouldn't," I mumble. "That's rude."

Silence.

"...But what if he drew me?"

Immediately, my brain goes into overdrive.
Did he? No, probably not. But what if he did? He sketches everything. What if there's a page somewhere with a tiny, scribbly me on it, mouth open mid-yap?

The idea makes my cheeks warm.

I glance back at him. Still asleep. Still peaceful. Still unfairly pretty for someone who spends half his life coughing into tissues.

"Just one look," I whisper. "Quick. Harmless. Curiosity won't kill the cat. Probably."

I reach out slowly, carefully — my fingertips hovering an inch above the sketchbook.

My heart monitor beeps faster.
Traitor.

I freeze. "Shh!" I whisper at it. "Don't rat me out!"

Calian stirs — just a little — and I yank my hand back like I touched fire. My chest is pounding now, a mix of guilt and adrenaline.

Okay. Maybe this is a sign. Don't do it. Don't snoop.

But then again... he is asleep. And what if he drew something really beautiful? What if he drew something sad, and I could finally understand what goes on in that quiet head of his?

My fingers twitch again.

No. No, Eliora. Bad. Stop it.

I cross my arms, glaring at the book like it personally insulted me. "You're evil," I whisper. "Pure evil."

For a few long seconds, I just stand there — debating, pacing quietly beside his bed, my heart doing that fluttery race it always does when I'm up to something.

He shifts again, murmuring something under his breath. I freeze mid-step.

He exhales slowly, eyes still closed.

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding and whisper, "Fine, fine. I won't touch it."

I glance down one last time. The edge of a drawing peeks out — a curved line, faint shading, maybe the start of a face.

My curiosity screams. My conscience screams louder.

I sigh, frustrated, and whisper to the sketchbook, "You win this round."

Then I tiptoe back toward my bed, still glancing over my shoulder. Because, honestly? I'm not sure I'll be able to resist next time.