There I was seated at my window sill, holding my novel, the sunlight a weak, diffused glow over my open pages. I glanced around my room, my little sanctuary, both a comfort and a prison. The walls were a soft, muted blue—chosen not for any specific reason but for the way it seemed to soften the edges of my life. Above my bed, posters of galaxies and stars stretched out, places far beyond where my imagination could wander. Next to the bed was a small study desk, cluttered with notebooks, pens, and a few novels stacked precariously. It was more a place to stack things than a place I actually used for studying; school had become something of an afterthought in my life.
A knock on the door, light yet insistent, broke the quiet. My mother stepped in, her face a blend of warmth and worry, a combination I’d grown familiar with over the years. She was petite and graceful, dressed in a soft pink sweater that hugged her lightly, paired with dark jeans that accentuated her slender figure. Her hair was pulled back into a loose bun, a few stray wisps framing her face.
“Honey,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm, “it’s time for your checkup. We need to leave soon.”
I sighed, letting the novel slip from my hands and onto the window sill. "Do I have to?"
Her gaze softened. “Yes, you do. Come on now.”
Reluctantly, I pushed myself up and trudged towards the bathroom, dragging my feet with each step. My mind raced as I flicked on the bathroom light. Thoughts criss-crossed, memories of endless hospital visits, the sterile smell of disinfectant, the hum of machines. I had been diagnosed with emphysema as a kid—a rare case, they’d said, especially for someone my age. Most of my childhood had slipped by behind hospital windows, fighting for breath, fighting to hold onto whatever semblance of normalcy I could grasp.
I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm, steam slowly filling the room. The bathroom was small, with white tiled walls and a plain, unadorned mirror above the sink. Simple and functional, like so much of my life had become. As the water poured over my shoulders and down my back, I closed my eyes, letting the warmth seep in. For a few moments, everything faded—the worry, the appointments, the anxiety. There was only the sound of the water hitting the tiles, a gentle rhythm that lulled my mind into silence.
When I finally turned off the shower and stepped out, I toweled off, the cool air prickling against my skin as I dried. I put on my clothes: a pair of worn jeans and a loose, gray hoodie, my go-to comfort outfit. I glanced at myself in the mirror for a moment. I looked pale, but then, I’d gotten used to seeing that in my reflection.
I made my way downstairs, each step creaking underfoot. The house was quiet, bathed in the morning light. It was a modest place, small but cozy. The walls of the hallway were lined with framed photographs—mom and dad on their wedding day, some baby photos of me, pictures from family vacations that had been fewer and farther between over the years.
The living room opened up as I rounded the corner, a cozy space filled with soft, warm colors. A plush, gray couch dominated the room, sagging slightly from years of use. My mother sat on it, her phone in hand, though she hung up the moment she saw me. She looked up, and I caught a flicker of something in her eyes—a brief moment of hesitation, like she was hiding something.
“Ready?” she asked, smoothing out the fabric of her sweater, her fingers fiddling with the loose ends as she avoided my gaze.
I frowned. “Yeah. Who were you talking to?”
She glanced away, her hands going still. “No one, just… just a quick call.”
Something about the way she said it, the way she seemed to brush it off, put me on edge. There was a weight in the room, a heaviness to her tone that I couldn’t quite place. But I didn’t push. I’d learned over the years that some things were better left unasked, unspoken.
She stood, her gaze finally meeting mine. “Come on. We should get going. The doctor’s waiting.”
We stepped out into the crisp air, the familiar chill sinking into my bones. As we walked to the car, I caught her glancing at me out of the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable, lost in thoughts she wouldn’t share.
YOU ARE READING
BORROWED HEARTBEATS
RomanceDiego has lived most of his life with a diagnosis hanging over him: emphysema, a rare disease that makes each breath a struggle. At 19, he learns he has only three months left, a brutal countdown he faces with resignation. But when his childhood fri...
