The group room smells faintly of coffee and disinfectant — the kind of scent that's weirdly comforting if you've been here long enough.
The chairs are set up in a circle like usual, sunlight slipping through the blinds and striping the floor in gold lines.

Dr. Ren smiles as we file in. "Welcome back, everyone. I'm glad to see familiar faces — and some new smiles." She glances at me and Charlotte, then at Calian, who's setting his oxygen tank quietly beside his chair.

I wiggle my fingers in a tiny wave. "Hi."

"Eliora," Dr. Ren says with that amused tone she always gets when she's half-expecting chaos. "I hear you've had quite a week."

"Me? Nothing unusual," I say breezily. "Just some light dying, mild drama, standard stuff."

A few of the others chuckle. Calian gives me a small look — the kind that says you're impossible, but there's a flicker of a smile there too.

Dr. Ren nods, humoring me. "Alright, let's start simple. I want to check in with everyone. How have you been feeling? What's been on your mind this week?"

For once, I'm ready to talk first — but before I can open my mouth, Calian's voice breaks the quiet.

"I'll go," he says.

The whole circle stills. Even Dr. Ren looks surprised. "Go ahead, Calian."

He keeps his gaze low, fingers resting on the edge of his sketchbook. His voice is calm — steady in that careful way that sounds practiced, like he's thought this through a thousand times.

"They need to remove my lung," he says simply. "The left one. It's dead tissue now. But... in order to do it, they need the right team, the right tools, and a bed open in the surgical ward. None of that's available yet."

No one moves. The air in the room feels heavier suddenly, thick with silence.

"So I'm waiting," he continues softly. "Could be a week. Could be a month. Could be never."

I feel my stomach twist.

He takes a shallow breath, his eyes still on his lap. "If they can't do it in time, my lungs will fail completely. And that'll be it."

My throat closes. He says it so matter-of-factly, like he's explaining the weather.

"I don't... know how I feel about it," he admits after a long pause. "Part of me's scared. Part of me's tired. But mostly, I think I just don't want to leave things unfinished."

"Like your art?" Dr. Ren asks gently.

Calian gives a small nod. "Like... everything."

The room stays silent for a long moment — no one daring to break it. Even Lily's little hands have gone still in her lap. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, that ache rising behind my ribs.

He looks up just once, his eyes finding mine. There's no fear there, just quiet acceptance — the kind that burns deeper than panic ever could.

And for once, I can't think of anything to say. No joke. No chaos. Just the sharp, aching sound of my own breathing.

Dr. Ren finally nods. "Thank you, Calian. That was... brave."

Calian just shrugs, looking back down. "Didn't feel brave."

Dr. Ren smiles softly. "It usually doesn't."

For a long time after Calian finishes, no one says anything. You could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, the squeak of someone shifting in their chair — all the little sounds that fill a silence too big to touch.

And then, somehow, the words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Well," I say, voice wobbling, "that was definitely a hard act to follow."

A few people smile faintly. Dr. Ren tilts her head. "Go on, Eliora."

I fidget with the paper crane Lily gave me earlier — I brought it with me, just in case. My fingers trace the folds like maybe the magic will help me speak.

"I..." I start, then stop, swallowing hard. "I think about dying a lot."

The room goes still again. I try to laugh it off, a small, shaky sound. "Not in a creepy way! Just—y'know. Occupational hazard when your heart's the least reliable thing about you."

Dr. Ren's face softens, but she doesn't interrupt.

"I joke about it all the time," I continue. "Like, 'ha ha, what if I die mid-sentence,' or 'don't make me laugh too hard, my heart might quit.' And everyone laughs. Because that's what I want. I want it to be funny. I want to make it bearable."

My voice catches, and I stare down at my lap.

"But it's not funny when it actually happens."
I glance at Calian, who's watching me quietly. "When he—when you stopped breathing, I thought... I thought that was it. That all the light in this place just... went out."

The words are out before I can stop them, raw and trembling.

"I realized in that moment," I whisper, "that we're all pretending not to be terrified. We decorate our pain. We make jokes. We color it pink and lavender so it doesn't look like dying."

The tears come before I can blink them away.
I hate crying in front of people. I hate it. But my voice won't steady.

"I'm scared too," I admit softly. "Not just of dying. But of living. Because what if I live long enough to lose everyone else first? What if I'm the last one left?"

My chest tightens. "I've spent so long trying to make everyone laugh that I forgot laughter doesn't stop the clock. It just... distracts you from hearing it tick."

I laugh wetly through my tears. "See? Still dramatic, even in therapy."

The group lets out a small ripple of laughter — kind and careful. Charlotte's wiping her eyes. Lily's holding her stuffed bunny tight. Calian's still watching me, his expression unreadable, but there's something in his eyes that makes it easier to breathe.

Dr. Ren leans forward slightly, her voice soft. "Thank you, Eliora. That was honest. And brave."

I nod, wiping my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. "Yeah, well. Honesty's easier when you've already died a little on the inside this week."

That gets another gentle laugh from the room — the kind that feels like an exhale.

I squeeze the paper crane tighter, the edges pressing into my palm like a reminder that I'm still here.
Still breathing.
Still trying.