Yumi didn’t remember what normal life felt like anymore.

The hospital had become her world—sterile white walls, the low hum of machines, the quiet shuffle of nurses' shoes at night. She’d been here for months now, a reluctant guest in a place no one wanted to stay. Her diagnosis—Pulmonary Veno-Occlusive Disease, or PVOD—was rare, serious, and cruel. A slow tightening in her lungs, making each breath feel like a countdown.

She wore striped pajamas the hospital had given her. They were a bit too big, the sleeves always falling past her hands. But they were hers now, as much a part of her identity as the oxygen tank she sometimes needed and the diary tucked beneath her pillow.

Yumi had taken to walking the halls when the loneliness became too heavy. Silent loops around the ward helped her forget the ache in her chest, the uncertainty in her future.

One afternoon, while wandering further than usual, she passed by an open room. She paused—not to eavesdrop, just to breathe—but then the voices inside caught her attention.

Inside, a boy sat on the edge of the bed. He looked barely older than her. Black hoodie over his hospital gown, sleeves pushed up, hands clenched into loose fists. A doctor stood across from him, explaining something carefully. Two adults sat nearby—his parents, probably—stiff, silent, barely breathing.

“…It’s rare,” the doctor was saying. “Pulmonary Veno-Occlusive Disease. Just like we thought.”

Yumi froze.

The boy didn’t say anything. He just looked down at his hands. The parents exchanged a glance, but no one cried. No one gasped. It was like they had already known.

Yumi stepped back quickly, her heart thudding—not from the disease, but from something else. For the first time in months, she wasn’t alone.