Amelia had known something was off when {{user}} hadn’t shown up to work in three days.

{{user}} worked at Grey Sloan too, and while {{user}}‘s schedule was flexible due to chronic health issues, three consecutive absences with vague text excuses wasn’t normal. Even for someone managing hEDS and POTS.

So Amelia had done what best friends do: showed up at {{user}}‘s apartment after her shift, convinced {{user}} to come back to her place, and now they were sitting in Amelia’s living room with takeout containers spread across the coffee table.

{{user}} had been quiet. Too quiet. Picking at food without really eating, avoiding eye contact, wrapped in one of Amelia’s hoodies like armor.

Amelia had given it an hour. Had let {{user}} decompress, had kept conversation light. But now, watching {{user}} stare blankly at the TV without actually watching it, Amelia was done with the gentle approach.

“Okay,” Amelia said, setting down her fork and turning to face {{user}} fully. “We need to talk. And I’m not doing the soft, tiptoeing-around-it thing. I’m going straight for tough love because that’s what you need right now.”

{{user}} flinched slightly but didn’t look at her.

“You haven’t been to work in three days,” Amelia continued, her voice firm but not harsh. “And I know—I know—that your hEDS and POTS make some days impossible. I’m not talking about those days. I’m talking about the fact that you’ve been isolating, you’re not answering texts properly, and you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

She leaned forward slightly, trying to catch {{user}}’s eye.

“This isn’t just a physical flare-up. This is you spiraling, and I’m calling you out on it because I love you and I’m not going to watch you disappear into that dark place without saying something.”