At Brightwood University, Simi is a football player who knows that every game might be her last. Her illness is the unwelcome guest at her every kick and sprint, casting shadows over her dreams.
Then Alex shows up-a new football student with a smil...
Simi rushed into the Brabus, her breath uneven and ragged. Desmond barely had time to glance up from his phone when she slid into the passenger seat, slamming the door with a force that felt more like a scream.
"Simi, what's going on? Are you okay?" Desmond's voice was soft but insistent, filled with the quiet concern of someone who'd been through a few too many of these situations with her.
"Just drive," she whispered, clutching her stomach like it might unravel if she didn't hold it together. Her words were more of a plea than a command, and Desmond knew better than to press further. He ignited the engine, the quiet roar of the Brabus filling the tense silence between them.
He stole glances at her as he drove—her eyes shut tight, her lips pale, and her chest rising and falling too fast. Something was wrong.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked again, his voice a little softer, a little more patient.
"I don't feel too good," she muttered. Her hand trembled as she reached for the door handle. "Des, pull over."
Desmond swerved gently, pulling the car to the side of the road with a practiced ease. Before he could even put the gear in park, Simi had flung the door open and stumbled out. She barely made it to the edge of the street before doubling over, retching violently into the bushes.
Desmond was out of the car in seconds, rushing to her side. "Jesus, Simi—" he muttered, holding back her long braids as her body betrayed her, each heave more violent than the last. He tapped her back in gentle circles, his palm warm and steady against her fragile frame. She was shaking, weak.
When she finally stilled, her breath came in shallow gasps, her knees buckling beneath her. Desmond caught her just in time, slipping his arm around her waist and lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all. Her skin felt cold against his, her usually vibrant eyes dimmed to something distant, lost.
"I've got you," he whispered, his words more for him than her.
He eased her into the passenger seat, adjusting the seatbelt around her as she leaned her head against the window, utterly drained.
On the drive home, Simi's dazed voice broke the quiet. "He's moving on, Des," she muttered, her words slurred from exhaustion. "She's... perfect. So beautiful. And... no scars. No cancer." The last two words came out like a choke, bitter and raw.
Desmond didn't need to ask. He knew she was talking about Alex, and whoever the new girl was in his life. He didn't say anything, just tightened his grip on the steering wheel and drove. There was nothing to say—no easy comfort to offer. Sometimes, silence was the kindest thing.
When they pulled into her driveway, he didn't even bother honking. Instead, he dialed Tunde, Simi's brother, and simply said, "Open the front door."
Tunde was waiting by the time Desmond carried Simi out of the car. She was barely conscious, her head resting limply against his chest as he maneuvered her inside. Lade was up, her eyes wide with worry as she hurried over.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice sharp with fear.
Desmond shot her a look that said more than his words ever could. "She had a fit," he replied quietly, brushing off the severity. "But she'll be fine."
They worked in quiet tandem, changing Simi's clothes and tucking her into bed. Desmond lingered for a moment longer than necessary, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, before finally turning to leave.
Lade followed him out, wrapping her arms around herself as they stepped outside into the cool night air. "She had another episode, didn't she?" Her voice was soft, the question hanging in the air between them like smoke.
Desmond sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, it was bad this time. She... she's not doing great."
Lade's lips pressed into a thin line, and she glanced back toward the house as if she could see Simi through the walls. "What did she say?"
"She's been obsessing over Alex again," Desmond muttered, shaking his head. "I don't know how much more of this she can take, Aunty."
Lade's eyes darkened. "It's not just Alex, Des. It's everything. The treatments, the endless hospital visits, her body fighting her every step of the way... it's wearing her down. She's trying to be strong, but... I can see it."
"Yeah, I get that." Desmond's voice dropped lower, the weight of the night pressing on him. "How's the treatment going? I haven't heard any updates in a while."
Lade hesitated, biting her lip. "The doctors said the cancer's stopped spreading, which is... something. But it's still there. They're not even sure if this new treatment will work. And Simi's... she's losing hope, Des. She won't admit it, but I can see it in her eyes. She's tired of fighting."
Desmond clenched his fists, trying to push down the helplessness rising in his chest. "She doesn't deserve this, Aunty. She's been through enough."
"I know," Lade whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "But life doesn't care about that, does it?"
Desmond shook his head, looking out into the darkness beyond the driveway. "No, it doesn't." He paused, then looked at Lade, his eyes filled with a quiet determination. "But I'm not giving up on her. Not yet."
Lade nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Neither am I."
They stood in silence for a moment, the night air cool and still around them. Desmond finally stepped back, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion. "Take care of her. I'll check in tomorrow."
"I will," Lade promised, her voice steady, though her heart was anything but.
And as Desmond drove away, the road stretching out before him, all he could think about was the girl lying in that bed—fighting battles no one else could see, wars that left scars far deeper than any he could heal.
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