MY SUNSHINE stray kids

11 - unwell

The moment Kyo's consciousness drifted back to the surface, his heart began to pound with a fierce urgency. Even before his eyes opened, the sterile scent of disinfectant and the cold, artificial light seeping through his eyelids set his nerves on edge. His skin prickled with discomfort, and a heavy, suffocating sense of dread began to build in his chest, spreading through his veins like ice.

He didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to confirm what he already knew—what his body was screaming at him. But the sound of beeping monitors, the soft rustle of sheets, and the distant murmur of hospital staff made it impossible to deny. He was in a hospital, and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

A wave of nausea rolled over him as he finally forced his eyes open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights that flickered overhead. The sight of the white, sterile walls made his stomach churn. The starkness of the room was unbearable, every surface too clean, too polished, too... inhuman. It was as if the room itself was suffocating him, the air too thick, too sterile, too full of the scent of antiseptic that clung to his throat and nose, making him feel like he was drowning in it.

His breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps, his chest constricting with each one. He felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, a never-ending loop of fear and helplessness. The bed beneath him felt too firm, too stiff, and the thin blanket that covered him offered no comfort, only serving as a reminder of the cold, clinical reality he was trapped in.

Kyo's eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—that could ground him, something that wasn't cold, white, and lifeless. But there was nothing. Just the relentless beeping of the heart monitor, the steady drip of the IV in his arm, and the sterile, suffocating walls that surrounded him. It was all too much.

He tried to sit up, desperate to escape, but the moment he moved, a sharp pain shot through his arm where the IV was inserted, and he froze. The sight of the thin tube snaking into his vein made his skin crawl, and he couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through him. It felt wrong, invasive, like his very essence was being violated by the sterile, clinical environment. He wanted to rip it out, to tear away everything that connected him to this place, but his body wouldn't cooperate. It was as if the weight of the fear had paralyzed him, leaving him helpless and trapped.

The walls seemed to close in on him, the room shrinking with every passing second. His breaths became more erratic, his chest tightening until it felt like a vice was squeezing the air out of his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest, the rhythm deafening in his ears as if his body was fighting against the very air around him. He felt like he was suffocating, drowning in a sea of antiseptic and cold, sterile air.

The memories flooded back in a torrent—every hospital visit, every cold, uncaring face of a doctor or nurse, every time he had been confined to a bed, helpless and scared. The fear was overwhelming, crashing over him in waves, each one more intense than the last. He felt like a child again, lost and terrified, with no one to turn to, no one to save him from the sterile nightmare that had become his reality.

Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision as he stared up at the ceiling, his mind racing with panic. The fear was suffocating, crushing him under its weight, and no matter how hard he tried to calm himself, he couldn't escape it. He couldn't escape the hospital, the cold, sterile walls, the beeping monitors, the IV in his arm—he couldn't escape any of it.

Kyo's breathing became more erratic, his chest heaving as he tried to suck in air, but it felt like he was breathing through a straw, the air too thin, too cold, too sterile. He wanted to scream, to cry out for help, but his voice was trapped in his throat, choked off by the overwhelming fear that had seized him.

He was trapped, just like always. Trapped in a place that stripped him of his humanity, that reduced him to nothing more than a patient number, a diagnosis, a body in a bed. He was powerless, helpless, and it was suffocating him, crushing him under the weight of the sterile, inhuman environment that surrounded him.

And then, in the midst of his panic, he felt a warm, familiar hand slip into his own. The touch was gentle, grounding, pulling him back from the edge of the abyss. He blinked through the tears, his vision clearing just enough to see Chan sitting beside him, his expression full of concern and guilt.

"I... I can't be here, Chan," Kyo whispered, his voice choked with fear, "I can't..."

"I know, I know," Chan soothed, "Just focus on me."

Kyo closed his eyes, tears slipping down his pale cheeks as he clung to Chan's hand like a lifeline. The fear still lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind, but Chan's steady presence kept it at bay, if only just.

Deep down, Kyo knew that no matter how much Chan tried to comfort him, no matter how much he tried to convince himself that he was safe, the fear would never truly leave him. It would always be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting to consume him the moment he was left alone with the cold, sterile reality of the hospital.

"It's not your fault, Chan," Kyo managed to say, though his voice was barely above a whisper, "It's... it's just me. I didn't tell anyone... I didn't..."

"You don't have to go through this alone, Kyo. We're here for you, for whatever you need."

Kyo didn't respond, his eyes closing again as the exhaustion finally began to pull him under. Chan stayed by his side, holding his hand until he was sure Kyo was asleep again, his breathing deep and even. But even as Kyo rested, Chan's heart remained heavy, the guilt gnawing at him relentlessly. He knew he had to do better, to be more vigilant—Kyo was too important to him to let this happen again.

[mindonuts]