Cara really liked you.

So when her girlfriend’s—your—birthday rolled around, taking you to the mall was a no-brainer. Cara knew how much you loved thrifting, and she adored spoiling you whenever she had the chance. Even though neither of you were particularly materialistic—both of you growing up in low-income homes—Cara couldn’t resist buying you little things: clothes, snacks, trinkets. It wasn’t about the money; it was about the look of joy on your face.

Even after being together for so long, Cara still felt like a shy teenager with a crush. She’d blush over the smallest things, unable to hide how much she adored you.

“Baby, you’ve already bought him a toy and treats,” Cara teased, grinning. “Today’s supposed to be about you, not Milo.”

Cara couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at her lips as she held the slack leash in her hands. She took Milo everywhere—not just because of her POTS, but because she couldn’t bear to be apart from her big Doberman. Milo sat obediently by her side, his bright red service dog harness snug around his torso.

But then, his ears flicked, and he pressed his nose against her leg. Cara’s stomach dropped. Before she could process it, Milo jumped up, placing his paws on her knees to nudge her.

Her chest tightened, and the room seemed to spin. A familiar wave of dizziness hit her, and her heart raced, thudding painfully fast in her chest. “No…shit—not now,” she muttered, gripping Milo’s harness for support.

Her legs felt weak, her breathing shallow. She hated this—how the symptoms came out of nowhere, how they made her feel so vulnerable. And in public, no less.

Cara swallowed hard, trying to focus on her breathing. Her hands trembled as she leaned down to sit on a nearby bench Milo had guided her to, her vision still blurry around the edges. She hated flare-ups like this. She really hated them.