Chapter Nine: Storm Before the Platform
Age 19 — One Month Later
The first call came at 4:17 a.m.
Alora was in Toronto, staying at a hostel after speaking at a youth empowerment panel. She had barely fallen asleep when her phone buzzed, lighting up the darkness.
Missed Call: Jayden (3x)
Voicemail: Mama Ladi
She sat up, heart hammering, dread already seeping into her chest.
The voicemail was only four seconds long.
"Alora, baby… it's about Jayden. Call me back now. Please."
Her throat dried instantly. She hit redial with trembling fingers.
Mama Ladi answered on the first ring. "Alora. He's been rushed to the hospital. Asthma attack. Bad one."
Alora froze.
"I don't know how long he was without air. He collapsed at school," Mama Ladi's voice cracked. "I'm already on my way there."
"Which hospital?" Alora croaked.
"St. Matthew's. Baby, you need to come home."
Alora didn't even pack. She threw her notebook, charger, and lip balm into her bag, changed into jeans, and bolted for the train station.
The three-hour journey home felt like a lifetime.
She stared out the window the entire time, clutching her knees to her chest. Praying. Bargaining. Remembering.
Jayden — her little miracle. Her reason. Her why.
The boy who never complained, even when the lights went out.
The one who cheered her on when she got her first blog follower.
The only family she had left.
He has to be okay.
God, please. He has to be okay.
She ran through the hospital doors like her legs had wings. When she saw Mama Ladi in the waiting room, she nearly collapsed.
"Where is he?" she gasped.
"ICU. They've got him on a ventilator," Mama Ladi said, her voice thick. "He wasn't breathing when the ambulance got to the school."
Alora's knees buckled. She sat hard on a plastic chair.
"I should've been there," she whispered. "I should've—"
"No," Mama Ladi said firmly, holding her shoulders. "You were building something. You've kept that boy alive for years. Don't you dare carry this alone."
But the guilt swallowed her whole.
She didn't move for hours. Not until a nurse let her see him.
Jayden lay still in the hospital bed. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of machines. Tubes in his nose. Monitors blinking. The boy who once danced in the kitchen while frying eggs now looked like a stranger she couldn't reach.
Alora sat beside him and held his cold hand.
"Hey, J," she whispered, voice cracking. "You're not done yet. We still have dreams, remember? You're supposed to be the first in the family to go to college. I promised I'd be there to cheer you on. Don't… don't let go now."
She stayed all night. Humming softly. Reading pages from her journal aloud.
Telling him stories.
Begging the universe not to take him.
For three days, she didn't leave the hospital. She refused to go online. Refused interviews. Refused every speaking engagement. The blog remained untouched.
She didn't care.
Nothing else mattered but Jayden.
Then came the news on day four.
He was awake.
Groggy. Weak. But breathing on his own.
Alora broke down in tears right there in the ICU. The nurses gave her space. Mama Ladi wept with her.
When she finally entered the room and saw his eyes open, glassy but alive, she exhaled for the first time in days.
"Lo?" he whispered.
"I'm here," she choked out. "I'm right here."
Later that week, as he began recovering, Alora sat in the hospital chapel — small, quiet, with stained glass that flickered light like fire.
She opened her journal for the first time in days.
Her hands trembled.
She wrote:
I forgot how quickly life can shift.
One breath… one moment… and everything tilts.
I lost myself this week.
Not because I failed — but because I was scared.
Because I didn't know if I could handle another loss.
But the truth is… pain doesn't erase purpose.
It sharpens it.
I don't just want a platform.
I want to build a lifeline.
A place where girls like me — and boys like Jayden — can breathe.
If I'm going to rise, I want to take others with me.
When she finally logged into her blog, there were hundreds of unanswered comments. Some supportive. Some worried. Some frustrated.
But one message stopped her breath.
"I read your blog every week. I'm 16, couch-surfing, scared. I was going to end it last night. But then I reread your piece — 'Dear Girl Who's Tired of Being Strong.' It saved me. Please don't stop writing. We need you."
Alora didn't wait another second.
She opened a blank post. Her fingers flew over the keyboard like they were on fire.
"The Ones Who Keep Breathing"
You don't always have to be strong.
Some days, survival is enough.
I almost gave up this week.
Not on life — but on purpose.
On movement. On fire.
But something reminded me:
This matters.
Your voice.
Your story.
Your pain.
Your healing.
If you're reading this, I need you to know —
The world is better because you're in it.
Keep breathing.
Even if it's hard.
Especially when it's hard.
The post reached 300,000 views in 48 hours.
News outlets picked it up.
Mental health organizations reached out.
And a prominent nonprofit offered to fund her first writing fellowship for underprivileged girls.
Alora didn't cry.
She simply sat at her desk, placed her hand over her heart, and whispered:
"I'm still here."
Not broken.
Not lost.
Rebuilt.