Hospitals are the worst kind of quiet.
Not soft like libraries.
Not peaceful like early mornings.
It's a sterile quiet.
A buzzing, beeping, fluorescent kind that hums under your skin like guilt you can't scrub off.
The gown they put me in is too big, and it makes me feel smaller.
My hands look wrong-like they don't belong to a girl who used to laugh, who used to draw, who used to eat mango slices on the porch with Bear and Auggie.
I hate the smell in here.
Like bleach and metal and other people's pain.
I hate the sound of the IV drip.
I hate how the nurse asked so gently if I wanted a warm blanket-like softness is a reward for surviving.
"You fainted from malnourishment,"
the doctor says, like it's just another line on a chart.
Like it's not something that's been chewing me from the inside out.
"We're concerned about disordered eating. Have you ever heard of ARFID?"
I nod. But I don't answer.
Because ARFID sounds like something clinical.
Something they can name and box and medicate.
But it's not that simple.
It's not just food.
It's control.
It's shame.
It's silence taking up space in my throat so I never have to ask for help.
When Mama shows up, I brace for disappointment.
But she just sits beside the bed.
She touches my forehead like she's checking if I'm still her little girl.
And for the first time since I hit the tile in our bathroom,
I want to cry.
But I don't.
Because if I cry, I won't stop.
She whispers:
"You scared me, Senna."
I want to tell her: I scared myself too.
But I can't.
So I turn my face toward the wall and pretend to sleep.
Later, the nurse leaves, and it's just me and the IV and the weight of not eating and not speaking and not being enough for anyone to love out loud.
Luca hasn't come.
Part of me hopes he won't.
Because if he does, I might break.
If he does, I might say I'm still starving,
but not for food.
Then there's a knock.
I don't answer.
The door creaks open anyway.
Of course it's him.
Gray hoodie.
Backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder.
Hair messy like he ran here.
He doesn't say anything.
He just... looks at me.
And god, the way he looks at me?
Like I'm still here.
Like I'm still me.
Even now.
I try to say, You don't have to stay,
but nothing comes out.
So he walks in slowly.
Drops his stuff on the chair.
Sits on the edge of the bed like it's sacred ground.
He doesn't ask what happened.
He doesn't ask why.
He just reaches for my hand, his thumb brushing over the tape that holds the IV in place.
Like he's grounding me.
Like he's saying, You're still here. And I'm not leaving.
"This doesn't scare me, Senna," he says finally, voice barely above a whisper.
"You do."
I blink.
He smiles, sad and soft and stubborn.
"Because you almost left. And I don't know what I'd do if you were gone."
Something in my chest shatters.
And this time?, I cry.
I cry like it's all finally breaking through.
And he pulls me into him - IV and all - and lets me fall apart.
No fixing, No words, Just holding, Just staying.
And maybe that's what healing looks like at first: A hospital bed. A hoodie that smells like him. Tears soaking cotton. And a boy who stays even when you don't want him to see you like this.