Chapter 3

Elana Clements POV:

The headache was a constant companion, a dull throb behind my eyes that intensified with every move. Food held no appeal. Even the smell made my stomach churn. I lay curled on my bed, the sheets tangled around me, wishing for an end to the dizzying cycle of pain and nausea. If there was no cure, I just wanted it to be over quickly. No more fighting. No more pretense.

My eyes drifted to the faint needle marks on the back of my hand. The doctor' s words echoed in my mind, a relentless drumbeat. "You need to tell your family, Elana. This isn't something you can face alone. The treatment... it's aggressive. And the risks are significant."

"How significant?" I' d asked, my voice barely a whisper. The doctor had looked away, his silence a heavier answer than any words could be.

I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over Franco' s name. A desperate hope, small and flickering, urged me to call. To tell him. To break this terrible secret. What if, just what if, knowing would make him see? Make him care?

I pressed the call button. It rang once, twice, then clicked. Voicemail. He had hung up. My hope, fragile as it was, crumbled to dust. He didn't even let it ring. He just rejected me, instantly.

A fresh wave of helplessness washed over me. I couldn' t do this alone. My fingers, trembling slightly, found another contact. Casey. My best friend. My rock.

He answered on the second ring, his voice full of his usual loud energy. "Elana! What's up, girl? You okay?"

"Casey," I managed, my voice cracking. "I... I need you."

He was there within the hour, his usual booming laugh replaced by a quiet, concerned frown. We rarely allowed our two worlds to collide. Casey, with his boundless energy and easy charm, had always clashed with Franco' s rigid formality. Franco saw Casey as an unrefined jock, a bad influence. Casey saw Franco as a cold, entitled jerk. I usually kept them apart, a delicate balancing act that had now crumbled.

He wore a faded band t-shirt and ripped jeans, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls of the hospital. Heads turned as he strode through the waiting room, a vibrant splash of color in a world of muted tones.

"Is it getting worse, Elana?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes scanning my face with an almost desperate intensity.

I shook my head, avoiding his gaze. "No. Just... routine check-up." Another lie. It came so easily now.

We moved through the familiar routine: blood draw, medication pick-up. I sat in the infusion room, the steady drip of the IV a strange comfort. The warmth of the blanket, the low hum of the machines around me, lulled me into a drowsy state. I closed my eyes, seeking a moment of peace.

When I opened them again, the bag was empty. Casey was gone. The nurse, a harried young woman, bustled over. "Miss Clements, your drip is finished. You shouldn't have fallen asleep, you know." Her tone was sharp.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep. "I was just so tired."

Her expression softened. "Oh, honey. I get it." Her touch was surprisingly gentle as she removed the needle, leaving a small, stinging reminder on my skin.

I gathered my things, my limbs heavy, and made my way to the lab for another round of tests. My stomach growled, a hollow ache. I felt lightheaded, the white hallway swirling around me. I leaned against the wall, taking deep, shaky breaths.

That's when I saw them.

Franco. And Katina.

They emerged from the door marked "Psychiatric Consultation," Katina' s head bowed, Franco' s arm wrapped protectively around her. His face was a mask of tenderness, his brow furrowed with concern. He was looking at her the way he used to look at me, before everything withered and died.