The Bonds We Keep

Beneath the Weight

Atlas' POV

The hospital lights had a way of making everything feel surreal, like the world was stuck in a permanent pause between moments. I stared at the vending machine across the hallway, trying to focus on something—anything—that wasn't the truth we were all avoiding. My fingers drummed on my knee, the rhythm uneven, restless. I couldn't get the image of Ella out of my head—how pale she looked, how her breath barely came, like she was fighting against the air itself.

It's a strange thing, watching your little sister battle against her own body. The helplessness is suffocating. You try to think of anything you can do, but nothing comes. I'd spent years painting, pouring out my thoughts, emotions, everything onto a canvas. But there's no canvas big enough for this. No color that can capture the fear that's been gnawing at me for hours.

I glance over at Beckett. He's talking to the doctor, his arms crossed like he's trying to hold everything in, even though I know he's two seconds away from falling apart. The others are scattered—Milo's still gone, Jasper trying to calm him down outside, Ace and Dad are talking in low voices down the hall, and Mom's sitting silently in a chair. The whole family is fractured, spread out, like we've been blown apart by the force of the night.

But I'm not built to handle this kind of thing. I do humor, sarcasm, light-heartedness. That's my role—keep things easy, make everyone laugh. Except right now, there's nothing funny about watching someone you love hover between life and... and whatever comes after that. The thought alone sends a cold, hollow feeling through my chest.

I stand up, rubbing my hands together, more out of habit than anything, before walking over to Beckett. He doesn't look at me as I approach, still locked in whatever conversation he's having with the doctor. I can tell by his stance—he's in full-on medical mode. Detached. Professional. But I know him too well. He's not doing this for Ella. He's doing this for him. It's his way of pretending he has control over something. I don't have that luxury. I don't have any control. So instead, I have this ugly knot in my stomach, and my hands won't stop shaking.

The doctor nods, says something to Beckett, then leaves. I watch her go, trying to catch some sense of reassurance from her body language, but she looks just as grim as before. It's like this whole place is soaked in despair, and no one's allowed to breathe easy.Beckett finally turns to me. He doesn't say anything, just leans against the wall and exhales. "She's stable, for now," he says, his voice flat, but his eyes—they're scared.

"For now." The words echo in my mind, repeating like a brushstroke I can't get right. "Yeah, but what about later?"

He doesn't answer right away. He's good at that—avoiding the hard questions. It pisses me off, honestly, but I can't blame him. I'm not ready for the answers either."I don't know," he admits finally, his gaze falling to the floor. That's when I lose it. "You don't know? You're supposed to know, Beck. You're the doctor, right? You're the one with all the answers."

He snaps his head up, his eyes sharp. "It doesn't work like that, Atlas. You think I wouldn't fix her if I could?" His voice is low, tense, and I can see the strain in his posture. "I'd do anything to make sure she's okay, but this isn't something I can fix."I clench my fists, my knuckles turning white. I want to punch something, throw something, anything to release the tension building up inside me. "Then what the hell are we supposed to do? Just wait around until she..." I can't even finish the sentence.

"Until she what?" Beckett challenges, stepping closer. "Until she dies?" His voice cracks on the last word, and he looks away, like saying it out loud was too much. It's too much for all of us.I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the reality crashing in around me. My heart is pounding, and I feel like I'm going to explode, but I can't. Not here. Not now. Not when Ella might need us.

Without another word, I turn and walk down the hall. I need air. I need space. The hospital walls feel like they're closing in, suffocating me. I push through the exit doors and step outside. The cool night air hits me, a slap in the face that I wasn't expecting. I take a deep breath and look up at the sky. It's clear tonight, stars twinkling above like they're mocking me. How can everything be so calm out here when inside, my world is falling apart?I grab the back of my neck, pulling at the tension that's been sitting there for what feels like hours. It doesn't help. Nothing does. I think back to when we were kids—when Ella would sit with me while I painted, her eyes wide with wonder. She'd ask me why I used certain colors, why I made certain choices. I always told her it was because I liked to think of the world in a brighter way than it really was.

Funny how all of that feels distant now. There's no color that could make this brighter. There's no painting that could capture the feeling of watching someone you love disappear in slow motion. I hear footsteps behind me. Jasper. I don't turn around, but I know he's there. He stands beside me for a moment, silent. We both stare at the sky, neither of us saying a word."She's tough, you know," he says quietly, breaking the silence.I nod. "Yeah, she is."

But I'm scared that even the toughest people can only take so much.

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Word count: 966