11 parts Ongoing I've always known my lungs were fragile. Not weak-but fragile, like paper. Easy to crease, to tear, to burn through with time. Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis, the doctors called it. I just called it a countdown.
Still, I wrote. Every page, every chapter, every aching metaphor was a way to breathe when my lungs couldn't.
I never thought the boy reading my books would be the one sharing my oxygen machine.
He had the money I didn't. The smile I forgot how to wear. Chronic illness looked different on him-louder, brighter, somehow still full of spark. But he was breaking too, just quieter.
We met in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and unfinished stories.
He offered to help me. With treatment. With laughter. With living. And I hated how much I wanted to say yes.
Because when two people with paper lungs fall for each other...
There's only so much breath to share.
Copyright ©2025 Lyra Silas
