Hospitals make me nervous.

The smell of the medicine, the quiet hum of machines, the awareness that people have both died and lived here.

But I push it down. Dariel and I got here a little while ago, but I still feel like I don't know anything. His mom texted Dariel earlier, saying Minho had a bad reaction to some test, that he passed out, that he was in pain. That was it. No details. No explanation.

My happiness of finding an apartment fades as I look at him.  He looks awful. His skin is too pale, his lips dry and cracked. He hasn't said much since we walked in—just mumbled something about a headache before turning his face into the pillow. His mom has barely left his side, brushing his hair back and whispering to him.

We haven't told anyone about the apartment yet. It would cause too much stress upon Lillian, and I'm nervous to tell my parents. Plus, we don't even have the key yet. We got a few weeks to tell them.

Dariel stands near the window, arms crossed over his chest. He's barely spoken either. He's trying to come up with a solution that doesn't exist.

I glance at Minho again. His eyes are closed, but his fingers twitch against the blanket like he's still awake. Maybe half-asleep. Maybe just too exhausted to talk.

I clear my throat softly. "Hey, Minho."

His eyelids flutter slightly, but he doesn't open them. "Mm."

I try to smile, even though he can't see it. "Dariel and I came as soon as we heard. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"Yeah. I figured."

His fingers curl into the blanket.

Minho doesn't respond. He just blinks, as if keeping his eyes open is too much effort but he doesn't want to close them either.

I look at Dariel again, hoping he'll say something. Somehow, I feel like he will have the most effect on Minho.

Yet I keep talking, even though I feel like I'm not helping at all. "Did they say when you can go home?"

"Soon," his mom answers for him. "They just want to make sure he's stable."

Stable. That word makes my stomach twist. It makes it sound like something could still go wrong.

"Is there anything you need, Minho?" I wonder quietly.

"I want to go home."

His mom's face crumples. She squeezes his hand tighter. "I know, baby. Soon."

I stare at Minho's face, at the exhaustion weighing him down. This isn't fair. Minho used to be one of the most energetic people I know. And now he's just... this. Lying in a hospital bed, too tired to talk, too weak to even sit up.

"Excuse me," I say, walking out of the room.

I storm out into the hallway. Minho shouldn't have gone through that much pain. They should have stopped the procedure the moment something felt off.

Eventually, I spot a nurse near the station and stride up to her. "Excuse me," I say sharply.

She looks up, taken aback by my tone. "Yes?"

"Who performed Minho's procedure?"

Her brows furrow. "Are you family?"

"Practically. Who did it?"

"His physician is Dr. Garcia—"

"Where is he?"

"Ma'am, if you have concerns, I can—"

"I don't need a nurse," I cut in. "I need to talk to the doctor who almost paralyzed him."

The nurse's expression hardens. "No one almost paralyzed him."

"Are you kidding me? He was in so much pain he passed out. He can barely move, he can barely sit up, and you're telling me that's normal?"

She nods stiffly and steps away. "Wait here."

I cross my arms, my nails digging into my skin as I try to keep my anger in check. A few minutes later, Dr. Garcia appears, walking toward me with a calm expression that only infuriates me more.

"Hi," he greets. "I assume this is about Minho?"

"What the hell happened?"

"He had a severe reaction to the lumbar puncture. It was unexpected, but we handled it accordingly—"

"Handled it?" I repeat. "He was in agony. He passed out. When he woke up, he could barely move. And you think you handled it?"

"I understand this is upsetting—"

"No, you don't," I snap. "If you did, you wouldn't be standing here acting like this was just a bad headache. You almost paralyzed him!"

"That didn't happen."

"But it could have!" My whole body trembles. "And you expect us to just trust you after this? To go through more procedures?"

"I know you care about him. We do too. But these procedures are necessary. We are doing everything in our power to help him."

I shake my head. "You put him through hell for what? More test results? He was fine before this. Now, he's worse. How is that helping?"

"I assure you, we took every precaution. If we had known his body would react this way, we would have stopped sooner. But these tests are necessary to monitor his condition."

I open my mouth to argue again, but I feel a hand grip my arm.

"Luciana."

I turn, startled. Dariel.

His voice is calm compared to the rest of his expressions. "That's enough."

I shake my head. "No, it's not. He—"

"Lucy. Come with me."

For a second, I consider yanking my arm away, continuing the argument. But then I look at Dariel's face—his tense posture, the way his fingers twitch like he's barely holding himself together. And, I realize: he's just as angry as I am. Just handling it differently.

Slowly, I follow him outside.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The drive home is silence. Dariel keeps both hands on the wheel. I glance at him, but he doesn't look my way. He must be deep in thought, still processing everything. The way Minho looked so drained, so unlike himself. The way I nearly lost it on the doctor. The way he had to step in before I made things worse. The way his mom was crying.

I exhale and lean back in my seat, rubbing my temples. No matter how many times I replay it in my head, I can't shake the frustration.

Dariel finally speaks when we pull into my parents' driveway. "You ready for this?"

Right. We were planning to tell them about the apartment we found.

I nod, though my stomach is twisting. "I think so."

He squeezes my knee gently. "We'll be fine."

Inside, my parents are sitting at the dining table, my dad scrolling through his phone while my mom flips through a magazine. The moment we step in, they both look up.

"You two look exhausted," Mom says immediately as concern lines her face.

I force a small smile. "It's been a long day."

Dad sits up straighter. "How's Minho?"

Dariel hesitates for half a second before answering. "He'll be okay. He's still in pain, but the doctors said he can go home soon."

Mom sighs. "That poor boy. Lillian must be beside herself."

"She is," I say. "But she's staying with him tonight."

A brief silence settles over us before I glance at Dariel. He gives me a small nod.

I clear my throat. "We, um. We actually have something else to tell you."

"What is it?"

Dariel and I settle across from them on the table.

"We, eh... we found an apartment."

For a moment, neither of them reacts.

Then Dad leans forward slightly. "You what?"

"We found an apartment," it's Dariel who says it now. "We already signed the contract. We'll be moving in next month."

Mom blinks, clearly caught off guard. "Wait—already signed? Next month?"

I nod. "Yeah. Next month."

"But- but you discussed this with us just a few weeks ago. Now you're saying you signed something without telling us about it?"

Mom's face pinches in disbelief. "Luciana," she says stiffly,"you're nineteen."

"You've only been together for a year," Dad adds.

"We've thought about this for a while. It's not a rash decision."

"Not a rash decision?" Mom echoes. "Honey, moving in with a boyfriend after one year is already questionable, but signing a lease without telling us? Do you realize how impulsive that is?"

Dad gestures with his hands. "And renting? That's will be a lot of money! Dariel has a job, sure, but rent, bills, food—it adds up."

"We've already done the math," Dariel says smoothly, his voice calm, controlled. "We can afford it. And we didn't tell you right away because we wanted to be sure before getting anyone's hopes up."

"That's not the point," Mom argues. "You're nineteen, Luciana. You still live here—"

"Exactly," Dariel interrupts. "She still lives here. She's never had the experience of being on her own. Would you rather she wait until she's thrown into it unprepared, or take this step now with someone she trusts?"

"And what if it doesn't work out? Huh? Then what? You're stuck with rent, stuck with—"

"It will work out."

It's the certainty in Dariel's tone that throws me. Like there's no other option. No possibility of failure.

Mom crosses her arms. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because we know what we're doing," Dariel says. "We aren't rushing into marriage. We're just taking a step forward. You know—we don't argue, we handle things maturely. And if anything goes wrong, it's my name on the contract, not Luciana's. I'd never let her be in a bad position."

Dad is not convinced. "A year, Dariel. A year. That's nothing. What if another year passes and you realize you're not as compatible as you think?"

Dariel doesn't hesitate. "Then we work through it. Like adults."

It's so subtle. The way he says it. Like they're the irrational ones. Like we're the ones being mature here, and they're overreacting.

While I totally understand the shock my parents must feel. We indeed made a fast decision.

Yet Dariel makes it sound perfect—that's one of his many strengths. He's able to change people's minds so well and so fast. Lowering the price of the apartment, and now convincing my parents with ease...

Mom sighs, rubbing her forehead, clearly frustrated. "Why can't you wait a little longer?"

"Because we don't need to. We're ready now. We're making a responsible decision, and we'd love your support. But even if we don't have it, this is still happening."

A beat of silence.

I feel my parents slipping, their resistance cracking just a little under Dariel's steady logic. He isn't aggressive, isn't arguing. He's calm.

And it works.

"You're sure about this?" Mom asks, looking at me now.

Dariel's fingers brush against mine under the table. "Yes," I say.