The Girl in the Rural Breeze

Star

The soft rays of morning sunlight seeped through the curtains, gently nudging me from my sleep. I shifted, feeling the warmth of the bed against my skin, and for a moment, I just stayed there. I hadn’t slept this well in days. My body felt light, almost weightless, as if the world outside didn’t exist yet. The soft hum of the morning outside was a quiet comfort—birds chirping, the distant sound of traffic, the soft rustle of leaves in the wind. It all seemed so peaceful.

I stretched lazily, feeling the tension in my muscles from the past few days slowly melt away. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d woken up without that familiar feeling of dread gnawing at my insides, the constant reminder of what was to come. But today felt different. It felt... normal. Like maybe, for a fleeting moment, everything was fine.

But then, of course, reality crept back in, like it always did. I opened my eyes fully, staring at the ceiling as the weight of it all came rushing back. My illness. The appointments. The medications I had to take every day, the constant fear of the future.

I sighed, closing my eyes again for a moment. I couldn’t let myself go there. Not today.

The bed was too comfortable, and I found myself sinking deeper into the soft sheets. I didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to face the day. But I knew I had to.

Reluctantly, I pushed myself up, the cool air of the room hitting my skin. My feet brushed against the hardwood floor as I walked to the bathroom, each step dragging like I was walking in slow motion. The world outside seemed so far away.

I started the shower, letting the steam fill the small bathroom. The warm water hit my skin, and I stood there for a while, letting it soothe the tension in my muscles. It was like I could forget everything for a few minutes. Just let the water wash over me, let the feeling of being clean and refreshed take over.

I shampooed my hair slowly, my fingers running through the strands as I let my mind wander. The steam blurred the bathroom mirror, leaving only a hazy reflection of myself.

My thoughts drifted, as they often did these days. I thought about Jake.

It had been a few days since the last time we spoke. After the basketball practice, we exchanged numbers. He was always so kind—funny, easygoing, as if the world didn’t have a care in it. He texted me sometimes, little things like “How’s your day going?” or “Want to grab a coffee?” The messages were simple, but they felt real. For once, I didn’t feel like I was burdening someone with my illness. I felt... normal when I talked to him.

But that’s the thing. I couldn’t get attached. I couldn’t let myself enjoy the comfort of those simple conversations. He didn’t know about my disease. He didn’t know that every time I felt a little too happy, a little too normal, the weight of what I was hiding crushed me.

I finished my shower quickly, wrapping myself in a towel, and walked back to my room. I looked at the clock—already 9:30 AM. I should get dressed, eat something, but the thought of facing another day felt exhausting.

As I rummaged through my closet, my phone buzzed from the bed. I froze. It was a message from Jake.

I walked over, grabbing the phone. My heart skipped a beat when I saw his name on the screen.

“Hey, Lila. How’s your day looking? Want to grab some coffee later? I know we’ve both been busy, but I thought it’d be nice to catch up.”

I felt a warmth spread through me, a small smile tugging at my lips. But it quickly faded as the reality of the situation sank in.

I sat on the bed, staring at the screen. The thought of meeting him—of spending time with him—made me want to say yes so badly. But I knew I couldn’t. I couldn’t let myself get too close.