Hold On I Still Need You

-Fractured Walls-

A/N: Update. Yippie. :) Its all I got for now. 

Sophie's POV: 

I collapsed on the couch, my body slumped with exhaustion. The heavy air pressing against my chest with every breath. I couldn't quite explain it, but something was wrong. My limbs trembled with the effort of holding myself upright, and the sharp, relentless ache deep in her bones made it hard to focus on anything beyond the pain.

I had thought I had been doing better, things hadn't been bad for the last couple days. If I felt totally fine, from her last visit things had not worsened nor gotten better like always. The hospital visit was a few days ago, and I had been holding onto the hope that maybe , just maybe things were getting better. But now, the lingering exhaustion felt like an anchor, dragging me back down into the darkness I had thought I was escaping.

Keefe's voice broke through the haze, soft but urgent. "Foster? Are you okay?"

My head jerked up, and I forced a smile, even though it felt unnatural on my face. "I'm fine," I lied, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. "Just tired, that's all."

Keefe was standing in the doorway now, his expression laced with concern, his eyes scanning my pale face, taking in the way I was clinging to the couch like it was the only thing keeping me upright. He took a step forward, but I waved him off, hoping he didn't see how the ground beneath me seemed to tilt.

"I'm fine," I repeated, my voice a little firmer, a little more convincing. It wasn't true, but I had to keep up the facade, if only for him. For myself. "Really."

But as he hesitated, I could feel the weight of his gaze, and a crack in my armor threatened to widen. I knew that he could see right through me, could always see through me, but this time—this time, I couldn't get myself to open up about it. Not wanting to worry him more.

I could tell that he didn't buy my lie for a second. His brow furrowed, as he watched me, his concern deepening. But instead of pressing more into it, he just stood there, a silent understanding in his eyes. He knows her too well to push when I wasn't ready to open up, but he wasn't going to leave her alone either.

He moved to the side table, grabbing a glass of water and bringing it to me with a quiet, "Here. Drink something."

I took it from him, grateful but reluctant. I didn't want to rely on him like this. I didn't want to feel like a burden. But the weight in my chest made it impossible to refuse, and I drained the glass in silence.

Keefe was already adjusting my blanket when I put the glass down, his movements gentle but purposeful. He'd always had a knack for making everything feel just a little bit more bearable, even when he didn't say a word.

"Anything else?" he asked quietly, sitting down beside me.

I shook my head, my throat tight. "I'm okay." The words tasted wrong in my mouth again, but I didn't want to ask for more. I hated this—hated needing him like this.

But Keefe didn't seem to mind. And somehow, that made it worse.

Everyday, the weight of my illness weighs down on me in ways I've never imagined. It's not just the physical exhaustion or the constant pain; it's the overwhelming sense of vulnerability. I hate it. I hate how fragile I've become, how every movement feels like a battle, and how my body doesn't respond the way it used to. I've always prided myself on my strength, on the quiet resilience that no one had to see. Now, it feels like that strength is slipping away, and I can't stop it. Every breath, every step, feels like I'm losing myself.

Flashbacks from my last hospital visit haunt me. The doctor's face, the look of uncertainty, the way he avoided eye contact when I asked the hard questions. I can't ignore the fear creeping in, the terror of not knowing what's next. My condition is like a shadow, unpredictable and dark, and I can't seem to outrun it.