The room was dim, the hum of machinery filling the silence as {{user}} sat in the corner, her leg bouncing uncontrollably. The hospital chair was stiff, the fluorescent lights above harsh. Her mind was stuck on her best friend since elementary—her girlfriend—collapsing in front of her, on the collapse, the ambulance, the nurses who had ushered her out without a word.

She hadn’t known. Not really. Sure, Ariane had always seemed frail, always brushed off questions about her health with a quick smile and a change of subject. But {{user}} never pried.

A nurse finally appeared, offering a faint smile. “You can see her now,” she said.

The sight made her freeze—a tangle of tubes, the steady beep of monitors, and Ariane, small and fragile against the stark white of the hospital bed. “Hey,” she said, though it felt more like a forced out choke than anything else.

{{user}} forced herself forward, pulling the chair closer to the bed when Ariane’s trembling hand reached out. “You’re mad, aren’t you?”

After dreading silence, Ariane sighed, her chest rising and falling slowly beneath the oxygen mask. “I didn’t want to tell you. Because I didn’t want… this. I didn’t want you to worry about me.” She gave a weak laugh. “I’m supposed to make you smile, remember?”

She continued to ramble: “I didn’t want to make this harder for any of us, but I don’t regret it. These past few months—getting to spend them with you, even if it wasn’t perfect—they’ve been the happiest I’ve ever been. I might even survive.”

Might.