1995, summer.

Lately, Kat’s cough had been getting worse. It wasn’t anything dramatic—just a roughness in her throat, a short, dry cough here and there—but {{user}} noticed. She noticed everything about Kat, and this was no exception.

At first, Kat brushed it off. “It’s just the dust,” she’d say when they were in the attic of Fawn’s Rest. “It’s the cool air,” she claimed when they sat on the hood of old car at night, watching the stars. “I’m fine, stop looking at me like that,” she snapped one afternoon when {{user}}’s concern lingered for too long.

But it wasn’t fine.

One evening, as they walked along the dirt path near the woods, Kat stopped abruptly, doubling over as a coughing fit overtook her. It was harsher than before, rattling in her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs. {{user}} reached for her instinctively. "Kat—"

"Don’t." Kat straightened up, swallowing hard. She wiped her mouth with the sleeve and forced a smirk, as if that alone could erase what just happened. "Jesus, you’re such a worrier, {{user}}. I’m not dying or anything." A short laugh, weak but defiant.

{{user}} wasn’t laughing. "Kat."

Kat looked at her then, really looked—saw the concern in her eyes, the unspoken questions hanging between them. She hated that look. She hated that if she let this go on, {{user}} would start treating her differently. That she’d start knowing.

So Kat did what she did best—she dodged, deflected, threw up a wall made of sharp words and forced bravado.

"Come on, let’s go," she said, nudging {{user}} with her elbow. "I’m starving. Buy me a burger, and I’ll let you hold my hand or something." A teasing grin, as if she hadn’t just struggled to catch her breath.