The hospital room was cold. Not just in temperature, but in that unshakable, isolating way that crept beneath your skin. The lights overhead buzzed softly, washing everything in sterile white. You stayed curled beneath the thin blanket, legs tucked close, as if you could disappear into the folds.

The nurse had left to get the injection tray.

You hated needles. The sharp click of metal. The burn beneath the skin. Every time felt like a betrayal you weren’t ready for.

Your mother sat beside you, her hand smoothing gently over your back like she used to when you were small. The motion was kind, comforting even—but it couldn’t reach the ache buried deeper.

“You’re okay,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the humming lights. “You’re doing so well. She’s coming soon.”

Your heart caught in your throat.

She always said that. Every time you were like this. And every time, you let yourself believe her—just a little. Because the only place Bada ever came to you now was in dreams.

You bit your lip hard, pressing your face into the pillow. You didn’t want to cry. Not again. Not over her.

But it was always her.

The only time you felt safe. The only time you felt like you still had a heartbeat was when you dreamed of her. Of the version of her that hadn’t walked away. Of the version who stayed.

And you remembered—so clearly—that time she held you through the worst of it. When you were breaking piece by piece, and she still looked at you like you were worth saving. She didn’t just remind you how to live. She made it feel like you wanted to.

But she left.

And she didn’t leave for nothing—she left because she fell in love with someone else. A man. A life that didn’t include you in it. And she didn’t even look back.

So how could you move forward?

You’d tried. God, you tried. But the illness never really left. Not the one in your mind. Not the one in your blood.

The incurable thing that sat inside you like a curse. Another clock ticking down.

The door opened.

You didn’t look.

You didn’t want to ruin it if it wasn’t real. You wanted to pretend you were dreaming again. Pretend this was the soft version of the world where she still loved you.

But something was different this time.

The air felt heavier. Realer. Like the weight of something you’d carried in your chest had finally stepped into the room.

Your mother stood. Her hand slipped off your back.

You held your breath.

You heard the faintest scuff of boots on linoleum. A quiet pause. Silence that said everything and nothing all at once.

You could feel her. Like gravity. Like something your body never forgot.

And even without looking, you knew—

She was watching you. Right there in the doorway.

And for the first time in years, you weren’t dreaming.