Chapter 17: You Look Pale

BRABRA

I wake up already regretting the rain, my whole body heavy in a way that has nothing to do with the extra weight I've grown used to carrying these past months.

I stand under the shower longer than usual, letting the hot water work uselessly against a chill that seems to sit underneath my skin instead of on top of it. By the time I'm dressed, I've talked myself into believing it's nothing. A late night. A soaking. The ordinary cost of standing under a bakery awning laughing in the rain instead of getting straight into the car like a sensible person.

I climb into the waiting car without complaint this morning, grateful, for once, not to have to manage the walk to the bus stop on legs that don't feel entirely like my own.

The heaviness doesn't go away by mid-morning the way I expect it to.

I sit at my desk, staring at the same spreadsheet I've been staring at for twenty minutes, the numbers blurring slightly no matter how hard I try to focus. My head feels full of static, my limbs strangely distant, like I'm operating my own body from somewhere a few feet outside of it.

"You've been quiet today," my coworker says, sliding into the seat beside me with her usual cup of tea. She sets a second one down in front of me without asking, the way she's started doing since I told her the truth. "Everything okay?"

"Just tired," I say, and for once, it isn't entirely a lie. "Didn't sleep well."

"You look pale." She studies me more closely now, her easy tone sharpening into something more careful. "Really pale, Brabra. Like, sit-down-before-you-fall-down pale."

"I'm fine." I press my palm flat against the desk, steadying myself against a wave of dizziness I don't want her to see. "Just the rain last night. I got soaked. I think I'm coming down with something."

She doesn't look convinced, but a call pulls her attention before she can push further, and I'm left alone at my desk with the static in my head and the strange, hollow ache spreading slowly through my lower back.

By noon, the ache has sharpened into something I can't ignore.

I excuse myself to the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink the way I did that very first morning months ago, except this time the room actually tilts around me, the fluorescent light overhead swimming into a smear of white.

"Not now," I whisper, echo of a morning I thought I'd left behind. "Please. Not now."

I splash cold water on my face, breathe through the dizziness until it eases just enough to stand upright without swaying, and make my way back to my desk on legs that don't feel entirely trustworthy.

My phone buzzes. Andriy.

Andriy: How's your day going? Still recovering from our disastrous dinner?

I stare at the message, debating how honest to be. The old instinct rises fast, the one that wants to say I'm fine and mean it, the one that's kept me upright through every hard morning since that first pink line.

I ignore it, for once.

Me: Not great, honestly. I feel off today. Dizzy. Tired in a way sleep isn't fixing.

His reply comes almost instantly.

Andriy: Off how? Talk to me, Brabra.

Me: I don't know. Everything feels far away. My back hurts more than usual.

There's a pause longer than his replies usually take, and when the next message arrives, the tone has shifted entirely.

Andriy: I'm coming to you. Don't argue with me about it. Just tell me if it gets worse before I get there.

I want to argue. Some frightened, stubborn part of me wants to type back that I'm fine, that I can manage this the way I've managed everything else. But the dizziness rolls through me again, stronger this time, and I find myself simply typing:

Me: Okay.

I set the phone down and press both hands flat against my stomach, checking for the flutter that's become so familiar these past weeks. It takes longer than usual to feel it, a small, faint movement that does little to ease the growing unease settling into my chest.

"Stay with me," I whisper, my voice barely audible over the low hum of the office around me. "Just a little longer. Please."

My coworker returns to her desk and takes one look at my face before she's on her feet again, crouching slightly beside my chair. "Brabra. You need to lie down. Right now."

"I'm fine," I say, the lie automatic even now, even as the room tilts gently at the edges of my vision.

"You are absolutely not fine." She reaches for my arm, steadying me as I stand, guiding me toward the small break room couch with a firmness I've never seen from her before. "Sit. I'm getting you water. And I'm calling whoever that man is who sends you cars and pillows, because something is wrong."

"He's already coming," I manage, sinking gratefully onto the couch, the room swimming gently around me even sitting still.

"Good." She presses a cool bottle of water into my hand, kneeling in front of me, her worried eyes searching my face. "Then he can get here fast, because I don't like the way you look right now, Brabra. Not one bit."

"It's probably nothing," I try, though even the words come out thin, unconvincing even to my own ears. "Low blood sugar, maybe. I skipped breakfast."

"You didn't skip breakfast. I watched you eat half a bagel at your desk two hours ago." She presses the back of her hand briefly against my forehead, frowning. "You're clammy. That's not low blood sugar, Brabra. That's something else."

I want to tell her I'll be fine, the same reassurance I've offered everyone for months now, the practiced smile, the careful deflection.

Instead, the room tilts harder, the static in my head thickening into something heavier, something that pulls at the edges of my vision like a curtain slowly falling.

"I don't feel good," I whisper, and this time, for the first time in longer than I can remember, I let the truth show plainly on my face instead of hiding it behind anything at all.

The last thing I register clearly is the sound of the office door opening down the hall, fast footsteps, a voice calling my name that sounds like it's coming from somewhere very far away and getting closer all at once.

ANDRIY

Everything feels far away. My back hurts more than usual.

I read her message twice, three times, something cold moving through my chest that has nothing to do with the rain still streaking the windows of my office.

I'm out of my chair before I've fully decided to move, shrugging into my coat, already typing back with one hand while I reach for my keys with the other.

I'm coming to you. Don't argue with me about it. Just tell me if it gets worse before I get there.

I don't wait for my assistant. I don't wait for the elevator to reach my floor at its usual unhurried pace — I take the stairs, three at a time, phone gripped tightly in my hand, willing another message to appear on the screen.

Okay.

One word. It should reassure me. It doesn't. If anything, the ease with which she gave in, no argument, no insistence that she's fine, frightens me more than anything else could have.

Brabra doesn't give in easily. Not to anyone. Not even to me.

I break every reasonable speed limit on the drive to her office, my knuckles white against the steering wheel, replaying every dizzy, exhausted moment from last night that I brushed aside as nothing. The heaviness in her steps as I walked her to her door. The way she leaned into the jacket I gave her like she needed the extra warmth more than she let on.

I should have noticed. I should have paid closer attention instead of standing under that awning thinking about how badly I wanted to kiss her.

A traffic light turns red ahead of me, and I run it, ignoring the blare of a horn from a car I nearly clip, my mind fixed entirely on the last message she sent. Okay. Such a small, quiet word to carry this much dread.

I pull up outside her building and abandon the car carelessly at the curb, already moving before I've fully put it in park, already pushing through the front doors with a speed that draws startled looks from everyone in the lobby.

"Brabra!" Her name tears out of me the moment I round the corner into the office, spotting her coworker crouched beside the break room couch, spotting Brabra herself, pale and swaying, her eyes fluttering shut even as I close the distance between us at a dead run.

Her body starts to tip sideways just as I reach her, and everything in me narrows down to a single, desperate thought.

Not her. Not them. Not like this.