The moment Yara leaves to grab the stethoscope and whatever else she needs for my daily "Is your heart still functioning?" check, the room goes too quiet.

It's the kind of quiet that feels like it's listening.

I'm perched on my bed, fiddling with the edge of my blanket, pretending I'm not aware of the boy in the other bed. But I am. Oh, I definitely am.

He's awake now. Sitting up slightly. Dark hair messy like he fought gravity and lost. A thin oxygen tube runs beneath his nose, and there's a sketchbook on his tray table, open to a half-drawn something — lines that almost look like wings.

Our eyes meet.

Just one glance — quick, startled, electric.

And that's it.
That's the spark.

Like someone just plugged my soul into a socket and said, oh, this is what breathing feels like again.

My grin happens before I can stop it.

"Well hi there!" I blurt out.

He blinks. No response.

I keep going, because silence and I have a complicated relationship. "You're new. I'm Eliora. Everyone calls me Eli, but you don't have to yet, because technically we just met. What's your name?"

He stares at me, brow furrowed slightly, like he's trying to decide if I'm real or part of some fever dream.

"Not a talker, huh? That's okay. I can talk enough for both of us. It's kind of my superpower."

Still nothing. His expression says, What the hell is wrong with this girl?

I grin wider. "So what're you in for? Wait, no, that sounds like prison. I mean—why are you here? Actually don't answer that, that's probably rude. You don't have to tell me. I'll just guess! Asthma? Pneumonia? Oh! Chronic gloominess?"

His mouth twitches — not quite a smile, but something like it.

I gasp dramatically. "Was that—did you just almost smile? Oh my God, you did. That counts!"

He exhales softly through his nose, shaking his head like he's dealing with a hyperactive squirrel. "Lungs," he finally says, voice low and hoarse.

"Lungs! Knew it!" I snap my fingers. "See, I have a heart that likes to do the cha-cha instead of beating normally, so together we're, like, a full set. We could make a chart. 'Organs that Betrayed Us: A Memoir.'"

That gets the tiniest huff of laughter — so small it's barely audible, but I hear it.

And just like that, I've decided I like him.

"What's your name?" I ask again.

"Calian."

"Calian," I repeat, tasting it like it's a lyric. "That's beautiful. Sounds like something out of a fantasy book. Do you have mysterious powers? You look like someone who'd have mysterious powers."

Before he can respond, the door swings open.

"Alright, Eliora," Yara says, returning with her cart of medical gear. "Time for your heart check—"

She stops mid-sentence when she sees where I'm standing.

I'm halfway between my bed and Calian's, leaning on my IV pole like it's a dance partner.

"Eliora," she sighs. "Leave that poor boy alone."

"I'm just saying hi!" I protest. "He's new! It's rude not to welcome people!"

"Welcome him from your bed," she says, trying to steer me back.

I dig my heels in, still smiling at Calian. "He's fine, right, Calian? You're fine. He's totally fine. He loves me already."

Calian blinks at me, slow, bewildered. "I—uh—what?"

"See? We're bonding!"

Yara pinches the bridge of her nose. "You're going to make his lungs collapse from confusion."

I gasp. "Was that a medical burn? Yara, I'm so proud!"

She gives me the most exhausted look a human has ever given another human. "Eli. Sit. Down."

"I can't," I say, inching toward Calian's bed. "My legs have a mind of their own! Oh, hey, you draw?" I point at his sketchbook. "That's amazing. What's that, wings? Or lungs? Or both? Wait, that'd be so poetic—wing-lungs."

"Eliora!"

"I'm going, I'm going!"

I'm not going.

Yara mutters something that sounds like a prayer and grabs my wrist gently, trying to guide me back toward my side of the room. I twist, grin, and somehow escape her grasp.

"I'll just sit over here for moral support," I say, plopping down in the chair beside Calian's bed. "I'm great at moral support. Also terrible at silence."

Calian stares at me like I'm an unsolvable equation. "You weren't kidding about that."

I beam. "See? He gets me!"

Yara finally gives up, walking over with the stethoscope in hand and giving Calian an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry. She's... like this."

He nods slowly, a small, cautious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'm starting to see that."

Yara sighs. "Just ignore her. It's the only way to survive."

"Hey!" I protest, clutching my chest dramatically. "You say that like I'm contagious."

"Emotionally, you are," Yara mutters, crouching down to check my monitor.

I grin up at Calian, completely unbothered. "So. Tell me, do you like pudding? Because that's how I make friends around here."

"Eliora—" Yara starts.

"I've got chocolate, vanilla, and whatever that gray one was that tried to kill me last week—"

"Eliora."

"Okay, okay!" I raise my hands, still grinning at Calian. "We'll discuss pudding diplomacy later."

He just shakes his head again, but this time, there's no annoyance — just quiet amusement flickering behind his eyes.

And for a moment, between the laughter and the chaos and Yara's exasperated sighs, I swear I feel something new settling into the air between us — something curious, fragile, alive.

Yara presses her stethoscope to my chest and starts her routine — checking my pulse, my breathing, all the things my heart likes to make dramatic for no reason.

"Deep breath in," she says. I obey — sort of. "So anyway, Calian, where're you from?" I ask mid-inhale.

"Eliora," Yara warns. "No talking."

"I wasn't talking," I say, completely talking. "I was just... breathing loudly with commentary."

Calian stares at me from across the room, the faintest twitch of a smile pulling at his mouth like he's fighting it. "Out," Yara sighs, and I exhale loudly, like a deflating balloon.

"Okay, your turn," I tell Calian immediately. "Where're you from? And don't say 'the hospital.' I already tried that line and it doesn't impress anyone."

He hesitates, then says quietly, "South Carolina."

"Ooo, fancy! That's like... all beaches and humidity, right? You got that southern charm thing going on?"

He blinks. "I—don't think so."

"Lies. You totally do. I can tell. You've got polite eyebrows."

Yara snorts mid-note, pretending she didn't.

I point triumphantly. "See? Even Yara agrees."

"I did not agree," Yara says flatly. "Hold still."

"I am still! I'm just emotionally expressive!"

Calian raises one eyebrow at that. "Is she always like this?"

"Unfortunately," Yara mutters. "We've tried medication. It didn't work."

I gasp, clutching my heart. "You wound me, Yara! I'm a ray of sunshine!"

"You're a solar flare," she replies. "Pretty, but destructive."

"That's... actually kinda nice," I say thoughtfully. "I'm keeping that."

Calian coughs softly, like he's trying to hide a laugh. I immediately lean toward him (as much as my IV will allow). "Oh my God, was that a laugh? Did I just make you laugh?"

He looks away quickly, murmuring, "No."

"Liar!" I beam. "See, I knew it — I've got a one hundred percent success rate in cheering people up. Well, except Dr. Monroe, but he's like ninety percent eyebrows, so it's hard to tell."

Yara rolls her eyes, listening through the stethoscope again. "Breathe normally, Eliora."

"I'm trying, but I can't breathe normally when there's new friendship energy in the room!"

Calian gives me a look halfway between disbelief and amusement. "Friendship energy?"

"Yes!" I say, totally serious. "You're my new project."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Project?"

"Mission, goal, divine purpose — take your pick. I'm gonna make you laugh for real. Like full-on, can't-breathe, ugly laugh. It's my specialty."

"Please don't encourage her," Yara says to him, deadpan.

But Calian just huffs softly, that almost-smile flickering again before he glances down at his hands. "Good luck with that."

"Oh, it's not luck," I say, grinning. "It's persistence."

"Terrifying persistence," Yara adds. "Okay, all done."

She unclips the monitor from my finger, gives me that patient-but-exhausted nurse look, and stands up. "Try to stay in bed for a while, Eli. And maybe let him breathe without an interrogation, yeah?"

I nod, crossing my heart. "Of course. I'll be quiet as a—"

"Don't."

"—church mouse!" I finish brightly.

Yara groans. "God help me." She turns to Calian, giving him an apologetic smile. "If she gives you a headache, there's aspirin in the drawer by your bed."

Then she leaves, muttering something about noise complaints and divine patience. The door clicks shut behind her, and the silence that follows feels like a challenge.

I look over at Calian, who's staring determinedly at the window like if he ignores me long enough, I'll evaporate.

"So," I say cheerfully, "you like pudding or what?"

He exhales, eyes closing for a second. "You don't stop, do you?"

"Nope," I say, smiling. "Not until people smile back."

He opens one eye, glancing at me. "That sounds exhausting."

"Only for everyone else."

He actually laughs this time — quiet, reluctant, like the sound escaped before he could catch it.

And just like that, I know I've won.

🫀🫁

At some point, the light outside slips from gold to gray, and I'm still chattering about something probably irrelevant but deeply important, like why pudding cups are proof that joy is portable.

I keep yapping on and on about pudding, when Calian suddenly says, "Your hair's purple."

I blink, mid-ramble. "Huh?"

He nods toward me, a little hesitant, like he's afraid the comment might explode. "It's... purple."

"Lavender," I correct instantly, brushing a strand behind my ear. My blonde roots were starting to show again... meaning at some point in the next few months I'd have to find a way to get my mom to get me more dye to color it again. "There's a difference. Purple is chaos; lavender is poetry."

He tilts his head, studying me with that quiet curiosity of his. "Is there a reason?"

"For chaos or poetry?" I tease.

"For the color," he says, deadpan.

I grin. "Yes! Lavender's my favorite color."

He hums. "Why?"

"Because it's gentle," I say, settling on the edge of my bed again. "It's not loud like pink, or heavy like violet. It's soft, like something that decided to exist without needing permission."

He looks up for a second — not at me, exactly, but at my hair catching the dim light. "It suits you," he murmurs.

My heart does a weird little skip, and I grin to cover it. "Because I'm soft and gentle?"

"Because you exist without permission," he says quietly, returning to his tray of food and poking at it.

I laugh. "You make it sound like a crime."

"Sometimes it feels like one."

I tilt my head. "Existing?"

"Existing," he repeats, almost to himself.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The air between us is soft — like lavender itself, light and impossible to pin down.

Then I break the silence, because that's my job. "Well," I say, smiling, "if existing is a crime, we're partners in it. You're the getaway driver; I'll be the chaos in the passenger seat."

He lets out a breath that's definitely a laugh, low and quiet.

And I swear, for a moment, the sterile hospital light looks just a little more lavender.