Did someone help us? Did someone—?

Ava's POV

I moved to his side, pulling up the plastic chair and sinking onto it. I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I brushed his messy hair away from his forehead, noting the unnatural heat of his skin, even though the fever had broken. “Hey, baby,” I murmured, my voice husky, trying to sound normal, trying to be the strong, unwavering sister he always needed.

He looked better today—less pain behind his eyes, or so I hoped. Perhaps the brief break in his constant struggle had given him a flicker of peace. Or maybe he was just pretending for my sake, the way I always pretended for his, a silent pact of mutual deception to preserve what little hope we had.

“Did the tests go okay this morning?” I asked, my voice light, feigning casual interest.

He nodded, a slow, weak movement. “Dr. Nair said my numbers were better.” Then his voice dipped, softer, a shadow falling over his small features. “But he looked worried. Is something bad happening, Ava? Are we… are we out of time?” His gaze, so vulnerable and trusting, pierced me.

I hesitated, a sharp intake of breath. Lying to him was the hardest thing I ever had to do, a constant tightrope walk between protecting him and crushing his spirit. But this—this wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. It was a truth shrouded in unspoken costs, but a truth nonetheless.

“No,” I said gently, leaning closer, willing him to believe me, willing the conviction into my voice. “Something good is happening. Something wonderful, actually.”

His eyes lit up, wide and luminous with a hope I hadn’t seen there in months. “Really?” His voice was barely a whisper, imbued with a fragile disbelief.

I smiled, forcing the corners of my lips upward, even as a raw, hot burn behind my eyelids threatened to release the tears I refused to shed. “You’re going to have the surgery, Eli. Soon. Very, very soon.”

His breath caught, a small, choked gasp. For a second he just stared at me, his mouth slightly agape, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and dawning comprehension. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right, if his ears were playing tricks on him. Like hope was something too fragile to believe in all at once, something that had to be approached with extreme caution, lest it vanish into thin air.

“Are you… are you serious?” His voice cracked, trembling on the edge of tears. “But Ava, we didn’t have enough money. You said… you said we were still so far away.” The question, so innocent, so full of childlike faith in my honesty, was a knife to my heart. “How… how did you get it?”

“I got the money,” I said softly, cupping his cheek, my thumb tracing the fragile line of his jaw. His skin was so soft, so delicate beneath my touch. “Don’t worry how. You just focus on getting better, okay? Focus on getting strong for the surgery.”

His eyes filled, shimmering with unshed tears, but this time they were tears of immense relief and hope. “But how? Did someone help us? Did someone—?” He started to push, his innate curiosity warring with the overwhelming wave of good news.

“Shh.” I hugged him gently, wrapping my arms around his too-thin shoulders, feeling the sharp points of his shoulder blades beneath his hospital gown. He felt so small, so breakable. “It doesn’t matter now. It’s all going to be okay. Truly. Just focus on healing, on getting ready.”

He clung to me like a child, burying his face into my sweater, the faint smell of him a comfort and a torment. His small body shook with silent sobs. “I was so scared,” he whispered, his voice muffled against my chest. “I thought maybe… maybe I wouldn’t make it. I heard the nurses talking.”

My heart shattered again, silently, into a million pieces, in the space between his breaths. The sound of his fear, so raw and exposed, was almost more than I could bear. He had heard. He had known the precariousness of his existence, even as I had tried to shield him from it.

“You’re going to make it,” I said, my own voice trembling, but I forced it steady as I kissed the top of his head, inhaling the faint, sweet scent of his hair. “You’re strong, Eli. So incredibly strong. And you’re going to have a full life. A long, healthy life. You’re going to be able to run and play, to go to school, to do everything you ever dreamed of. I promise you, baby.” Each word was a vow, a binding oath to a future I had paid for with my own destruction.

He pulled back just enough to look up at me, his brown eyes, still shining with unshed tears, wide with worry.

“But what about you?” he asked suddenly, a new concern shadowing his face. “Will you be okay too, Ava? After all this?”

I faltered. The question hung in the air, a cruel, innocent trap. How could I tell him that "okay" was a concept that no longer applied to me? How could I explain the depth of the sacrifice, the extent of the damage?

I’d smiled through so many storms for him, through crushing debt, through endless nights of worry, through the despair that had threatened to consume me. I’d laughed when I wanted to scream, to rail against the injustice of a world that would inflict such suffering on an innocent child. I’d lied to protect his innocence, to preserve the fragile hope that kept him alive.

So I nodded again, forcing a smile that felt brittle, like glass about to shatter. “I’ll be okay,” I said, the words thin and reedy, but delivered with enough conviction that he believed me.

Even if I wasn’t. Even if I would never truly be okay again.

Because his life was worth it. Every tear I’d shed. Every bruise, both seen and unseen. Every unwanted, abhorrent kiss I would never forget, the phantom touch that still made my skin crawl. His breath, his laughter, his future—they were worth my entire existence.

He believed me. Of course he did. Because that’s what love was, wasn’t it?

Believing someone was okay even when everything in their eyes said they were breaking. Believing in the strength they pretended to have, because your own survival depended on it.

I sat with him until he drifted off to sleep, exhausted by the emotional roller coaster. His hand, so small and fragile, was still wrapped in mine, a silent testament to our unbreakable bond. I stayed there, listening to the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

And when he finally slept, a deep, peaceful sleep that held the promise of a future, I let the tears come again—quiet, careful ones. They traced paths down my temples, pooling into my hair, silent rivers of grief and relief.

Not for what I’d lost. My own self, my sense of inviolability, my future as I had once envisioned it—those were gone, perhaps forever.

But for what I’d saved. A life. His life. And in that moment, for that alone, it was almost enough. Almost.