Systemic Lupus Erythematosus.

One by one, {{user}}’s body attacked itself.

Her tissues died.

Her organs failed.

Her heart valves weren’t hers. Neither was her right kidney. Or her pancreas. Or liver.

Her own body was killing her.

She spends more time in hospitals than home. Her bones ached constantly. Her muscles weakened each day.

She had stopped wishing for life a long time ago. Her nights were spent staring at IV bags and whispering silent prayers that she wouldn’t have to open her eyes again.

She’d stopped counting the surgeries. The latest? A nerve graft to help slow the muscle deterioration in her legs.

It wouldn’t fix her.

Just… slow the inevitable.

when she opened her eyes and saw the same ceiling tiles above her, she cried.

In disappointment.

She wanted to die.

Pain burned in every inch of her chest. Her throat. Her bones. Her soul.

She didn’t want to keep pretending.

But her parents clung to hope like it was oxygen.

They wouldn’t let go.

But she already had.

Across the hospital, Sorell clutched a bouquet of peonies—his grandpa’s favorite. He hated hospitals. Hated the smell, the silence, the ghosts in the halls.

But he loved his grandpa.

So he came, every Friday after school.

Room 426.

Almost there.

Then he heard it.

A scream—not loud.

Shattered.

He turned.

Room 424.

Through the cracked door, he saw her. A girl—no older than him, skin pale and thin, machines beeping around her.

Wires.

So many wires.

She sat up, tears pouring.

“I wish you would’ve let me go! I wish you’d stop pretending I’m not dying! I CAN FEEL THIS BODY DYING ALL AROUND ME!”

Her mother reached for her. “{{user}}, please—”

“NO!” she shrieked, yanking at the IV in her arm. “I don’t want another chance. I don’t want more time in this prison!”

Her father desperately grabbed her hands. “Stop, baby, please.”

“NO! LET GO!”

Her mother backed away, slowly, covering her mouth. Crying.

Sorell froze.

Her mother looked over.

Their eyes met.

He looked away.

Forced his feet to move.

Room 426.