Emily
"How is she today, doctor…? Any changes?" Emily's words came out thin, like her voice had to push through the hallway air before it reached him. She hovered at the doorway with her backpack strap still clutched in one hand, as if stepping fully inside might make whatever was happening in this room more real.
The doctor didn't look up immediately. He studied the monitors first—numbers rising and falling with their own cold logic—then adjusted the clamp on an IV line with the sort of calm you only earned after too many nights like this.
"She's stable at the moment," he said gently. "Her breathing is a bit better today. That's a good sign."
Emily nodded, because nodding was something she could do without breaking. Her lips tried to shape a smile, but it came out weak and uncertain, like a candle fighting a draft.
The room smelled like antiseptic and something metallic under it, faint but always there. Machines filled the silence the way a ticking clock fills a house at night—steady, unavoidable.
Emily walked to the bed like she was approaching something sacred. Her mother lay still beneath a blanket that looked too white, too clean for how heavy the moment felt. A clear oxygen mask cupped her face, fogging slightly with each breath.
"Hello, Mom…" Emily whispered, lowering herself into the chair beside her. The chair squeaked softly, the sound too loud in the room. "It's me."
Her eyes burned. She blinked fast, like she could blink the hurt away.
Carefully, she reached out. Her mother's hand was cool—cooler than it should've been—and threaded with tape and tubes. Emily slid her fingers into her mom's palm anyway, slow and deliberate, like her hands knew the stakes even if her heart refused to understand them.
"I just left school," Emily said, trying for casual, trying for normal. The word *school* felt ridiculous here, like bringing a paper airplane into a storm. "I—" Her voice cracked. She swallowed hard. "I miss you, Mom."
A tear escaped before she could stop it. Emily swiped it away quick, almost angry at herself, as if crying was some kind of failure. She leaned closer, her thumb making small circles over her mother's knuckles.
"I'm handling everything at home," she insisted in a trembling whisper. "I swear. Okay? I'm doing the laundry, and I— I remembered the bills, and I'm eating. Sort of."
It wasn't all true. Not the eating part. Not really. But she needed her mother to believe it, wherever her mother was right now behind those half-shuttered lids.
For a moment, nothing changed. The monitor continued its patient, steady beeping—measuring time like it didn't care what day it was.
Then her mother's fingers moved.
Not much. Barely anything. But her hand tightened around Emily's.
A faint squeeze. Weak as a sigh. Still… unmistakably *there*.
Emily's breath caught like her lungs forgot what to do. She leaned in instantly, as if closeness could hold her mom to the world.
"Mom?" she whispered, almost afraid of the sound of hope.
Her mother's eyes fluttered, opening just a fraction. Behind the mask, a tiny curve formed at the corner of her mouth—so small Emily wondered if she imagined it. But the softness in her eyes wasn't imaginary. It was her.
Emily laughed once, quiet and broken, because relief sometimes came out wrong. Her face crumpled.
"That's right," she murmured, voice shaking. "That's you. That's my mom."
She stayed like that for nearly an hour. Talking, even when her mom couldn't answer. Filling the room with little pieces of life—what she could remember from class, a dumb thing a coworker said at the café, how the neighbor's dog barked at the mailman like it was a personal mission.
She wiped her mother's face gently. Smoothed her hair back. Adjusted the blanket as if neatness could protect her.
When she finally stood up, her legs were stiff, her shoulders aching like they'd been holding a weight too heavy for her age.
She folded the blanket edge carefully, the way her mother used to do when Emily was little and sick with the flu. The memory hit hard.
"Okay, Mama…" Emily managed, voice thick. She cleared her throat like that would fix it. "I'll be back tomorrow. I promise."
Her mom's eyelids fluttered—tiny movement, but enough to say *I heard you.*
Emily took a breath, forcing herself into the shape of normal again.
"I still have homework," she added, trying for a light tone and failing. "And… I have to be at work later. At the café."
Saying it out loud made it sound absurd. Like, *hey Mom, while you're here fighting to breathe, I have a shift to cover.*
The guilt lodged in her throat.
Emily leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mother's forehead. She lingered, because she didn't know how to do *goodbye* right now. Her mom's skin felt cool beneath her lips, and Emily's eyes closed for a second like she wanted to memorize it.
"I love you," she whispered.
Then she straightened, picked up her old backpack, and walked to the door slowly. At the threshold, she paused and looked back.
Her mother lay quiet and fragile among the tubes and wires, the soft machine sounds weaving around her like a strange lullaby.
Emily put on a smile—small, shaky, brave—and stepped into the hallway.
And somehow, she kept walking.
---
## Ryan's POV
"Yeah, Dad… I've got everything under control."
Ryan said it like a practiced line, like something he'd heard people say in movies when they were trying to sound confident. He was sprawled across his bed—*his* bed, a massive king-size thing that could've fit three teenagers and their problems—phone pressed to his ear, one arm tucked under his head.
His room was too big. The kind of big that didn't feel like freedom. It felt like distance.
Marble floors. Tall windows with curtains he never chose. A chandelier that made the ceiling feel farther away than the sky.
He always looked small in here, even when he tried not to.
Murphy's voice came through the speaker deep and controlled—warm in the way a thermostat was warm. Supportive, but with rules under it.
"Are you sure you're ready? You've never—"
"Totally," Ryan jumped in too fast. His grin came automatically, even though no one could see it. His heart was doing that stupid, frantic thing—pounding like it was trying to escape his ribs. "I'm going tomorrow. It's my first day."
*Real school.* Not tutors. Not private academies where everyone's parents knew each other and every hallway felt like a polished museum. This was different. This was public.
He flipped onto his stomach, kicking his feet behind him like a kid trying to play it cool. His voice followed suit—casual, breezy, fake.
"Yeah, yeah, don't worry. Everything's gonna be fine."
He hesitated, then the words slipped out more honestly than he meant them to.
"I'm not gonna let them know I'm… you know. Some billionaire's kid." He swallowed. "I just wanna be normal. Just this once, Dad."
Silence.
Ryan's eyes drifted to the huge mirror across the room. He looked put-together—good hair, clean lines, the kind of face people assumed had never been rejected by anything in his life.
But his eyes ruined the illusion. They were nervous. Too awake. Too unsure.
"I can do this," he murmured, more to himself than to Murphy. "I really want this."
Murphy exhaled—a sigh that carried years of power and worry.
"Okay," his father said at last. "But your driver will—"
"No driver." Ryan cut him off immediately. "I'm taking the bus."
"The bus," Murphy repeated, like Ryan had just announced he planned to walk through fire.
"I wanna experience it," Ryan insisted. "Fully. I want to do it right."
A grumble. Not quite approval—but not a no.
Ryan smiled in triumph, even though it was shaky.
"Okay," Murphy said finally. "Be careful."
Ryan ended the call and let the phone fall onto the silk sheets. For a second he just stared at the ceiling, frozen, like his body needed time to catch up with what his brain had done.
Then it hit him.
Excitement—bright and electric.
He sprang up and bounced once on the mattress, laughter bubbling up because he couldn't hold it in.
Tomorrow, he'd be… just Ryan.
No driver. No bodyguards. No staff greeting him like he was a prince.
Just a boy on a bus.
And for some reason, the thought made his chest feel full in a way the mansion never did.
---
## Emily (Morning)
Emily groaned as the sunlight punched straight through her curtains and into her face like it had personal beef with her.
She blinked, squinting, then turned her head toward the clock on her nightstand.
Her stomach dropped.
"Crap. I'm gonna be late for school…"
She kicked off the thin blanket and sat up too fast, dizziness washing over her in a quick wave. Her whole body felt heavy—like yesterday had stuck to her skin. The café shift. The hospital. The constant pretending she was fine.
But there was no time to be tired.
Emily stumbled into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face until her cheeks stung. The mirror showed her the truth:
Dark circles. Messy hair. Lips a little pale.
She didn't have time to fix it. She didn't have money for "fix it" anyway.
She yanked her uniform on fast, fingers clumsy with urgency, then shoved her hair into a messy ponytail that barely held.
Her backpack sat half-open on the floor like it had given up on her too. She crammed in notebooks, a bent pencil case, and the homework she'd scraped together half-asleep. Zipped it. Slung it over her shoulder.
Kitchen.
Fridge open.
Nothing.
Well… almost nothing.
One lonely apple sat on the top shelf like it had been forgotten.
Emily snatched it. "Guess that's breakfast."
She rushed out, locking the door behind her, and the sound of the bus—low and rumbling—hit her ears like a warning bell.
"Oh no," she breathed, seeing it up ahead. "Don't you dare leave me behind."
She ran.
Her backpack bounced against her spine. The apple nearly slipped from her grip. Her lungs burned.
The bus doors were already closing.
"WAIT!" she shouted, voice cracking with desperation.
The driver glanced in the mirror. Hesitated. Like he was deciding whether her panic was worth his schedule.
Then he sighed and reopened the doors.
Emily stumbled onboard, bent forward, trying to drag air into her chest like it was something she had to earn.
"Thanks," she panted. "Really."
The driver nodded once. "Rough morning?"
Emily let out a shaky laugh that didn't match the tightness in her throat. "Yeah. Something like that."
She looked for a seat.
None.
The bus was packed. Bodies and backpacks and too much noise for her already aching head. She gripped a pole as the bus jerked forward, and a few students glanced at her—some curious, some annoyed, some blank.
*Perfect,* she thought. *Just what I needed.*
Then a voice shouted from the back.
"Hey!!"
Emily turned.
A boy was waving at her like they were old friends.
He stood out immediately—crisp button-up shirt, hair too perfectly styled, backpack that looked expensive enough to have its own insurance policy. He wore a smile that was eager in a way that made him look both confident and… completely clueless.
"I got space here!" he called, grinning like he'd just offered her the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.
Emily hesitated.
*Why is he acting like offering a seat is a heroic act?*
But her legs were already shaking from the sprint. She needed to sit.
She made her way down the aisle carefully, clutching her apple and trying not to smack anyone with her backpack. The bus swayed. Someone muttered something under their breath. Emily ignored it.
When she reached him, the boy straightened like he was about to introduce himself in a boardroom.
"I'm Ryan," he said, holding out his hand.
Emily blinked.
On a bus?
She shook his hand anyway—briefly. His grip was cautious, almost gentle, like he was afraid of doing it wrong.
"…Thanks," she said, then added, "I'm Emily."
She sat down, exhaling hard, shoulders dropping like she'd been holding herself up with invisible strings.
Ryan looked at her with wide, curious eyes—like she was something rare, like she belonged to a world he'd only heard about.
Emily glanced sideways at him, suspicion creeping in around her exhaustion.
*Yeah… this is definitely odd.*
The bus rolled on, rattling over imperfect streets.