Nobody Knows

Chapter 14: Fracture

I told myself it was nothing.

People faint all the time.

Heat. Stress. Lack of sleep.

That’s normal.

What wasn’t normal was how my body felt the next morning.

Heavy.

Not sleepy-heavy.

Dense.

Like gravity had increased only for me.

I sat up slowly and waited for the room to tilt.

It didn’t.

That should have reassured me.

It didn’t.

My hand drifted to my temple. No pain. Just pressure. A dull awareness behind my eyes that hadn’t been there before this week.

I inhaled deeply.

My stomach turned.

Not violently.

Just enough to make me pause.

Okay.

Maybe I didn’t eat properly yesterday.

That’s logical.

I stood up carefully and walked to the bathroom. The light felt too bright when I switched it on. I blinked against it, gripping the sink for balance.

The mirror showed a pale version of me.

“You’re overreacting,” I whispered to my reflection.

I splashed water on my face.

Cold helps.

Cold means control.

But when I straightened again, a wave of nausea rolled through me—slower this time, deeper.

Not sharp.

Persistent.

I closed my eyes.

When was the last time I felt completely normal?

Before the park.

Before the hallway.

Before the bar.

Before Santos caught me.

My stomach clenched again.

Stress.

It’s stress.

That makes sense.

I leaned back against the wall and tried to steady my breathing.

Then something small—something almost forgettable—slipped into my thoughts.

A date.

I frowned.

No.

I opened my phone.

Scrolled.

Counted.

Counted again.

My chest tightened.

That’s not right.

It’s probably just late.

Stress does that.

Sleep does that.

Alcohol does that.

I swallowed.

I counted again.

The number didn’t change.

I stared at the screen like it might correct itself.

It didn’t.

A soft knock on my bedroom door made me flinch.

“Sam?” my mother’s voice. “Breakfast.”

“Coming.”

My voice sounded normal.

Too normal.

I put my phone down slowly.

Don’t spiral.

Don’t assume.

Don’t catastrophize.

Bodies are irregular sometimes.

That happens.

I walked downstairs carefully, aware of every step.

The smell of fried eggs hit me halfway down the stairs.

My stomach flipped instantly.

I froze.

It wasn’t just dislike.

It was rejection.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep walking.

“Sit,” my father said, not looking up from his phone.

I nodded and lowered myself into the chair.

The plate in front of me looked harmless.

Eggs.

Rice.

Toast.

Normal.

I picked up the fork.

The smell intensified.

My throat tightened.

“Eat before it gets cold,” my mother said gently.

I lifted a small bite to my mouth.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

And immediately felt my stomach protest.

I put the fork down.

“Not hungry?” my father asked.

“I’ll eat later.”

“You barely touched it.”

“I feel a little nauseous.”

The word slipped out before I could stop it.

My mother looked up quickly.

“From what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something I ate.”

She studied my face.

“You look pale.”

There it is again.

Pale.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically.

The lie felt thinner today.

I stood up too quickly.

The room shifted.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

I grabbed the edge of the table.

My mother stood halfway. “Sam?”

“I’m okay.”

I wasn’t.

I walked upstairs before they could look at me longer.

Closed my bedroom door.

Locked it.

Then leaned against it, breathing harder than I should have been.

It’s nothing.

It’s nothing.

It’s nothing.

Except my body felt like it was whispering something I wasn’t ready to hear.

I moved slowly toward my bed and sat down.

Count again.

I picked up my phone.

Counted.

The number still didn’t change.

My fingers trembled slightly.

No.

No, no.

This is coincidence.

Bad timing.

Stress.

My mind jumped unwillingly to faces.

Lucas.

The hotel.

The nights.

I swallowed hard.

I always told myself I was careful.

Careful enough.

Right?

Right?

A chill crept down my spine.

For the first time since this started, fear wasn’t about being exposed.

It was about something else entirely.

Something growing.

Something real.

I pressed my palm against my stomach without thinking.

It felt the same.

Flat.

Normal.

So why did it suddenly feel unfamiliar?

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time in this entire double life—

I didn’t feel in control.

I didn’t buy a test.

I didn’t google anything.

I didn’t do what normal people would do when something feels off.

I folded the thought carefully and pushed it somewhere deep.

Not now.

Not real.

I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling.

Late doesn’t mean anything.

Stress delays things.

I’ve been stressed.

That makes sense.

The more I repeated it, the more reasonable it sounded.

Until my body betrayed me again.

A wave of nausea hit without warning.

I shot upright, hand flying to my mouth.

It passed quickly.

Too quickly.

Like a warning instead of an event.

I exhaled slowly.

You’re overthinking.

You fainted.

You haven’t been sleeping.

You drink too much.

You barely eat.

There are explanations.

Logical ones.

Safer ones.

I grabbed my phone again.

Opened the calendar.

Counted.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

The numbers didn’t change.

I threw the phone onto the bed beside me like it offended me.

This is what happens when you let people get in your head.

Santos.

The way he said my name.

The way he looked at me like I wasn’t a mystery.

Like I was obvious.

Maybe that’s all this is.

Shame.

Stress.

Exposure.

Maybe my body is reacting to almost getting caught.

That makes more sense than—

No.

I sat up and pressed my palms into my eyes.

I have always been careful.

Careful enough.

Right?

The room felt too quiet.

Too aware.

Downstairs, my parents’ voices drifted up faintly. Normal. Stable. Unshaken.

Their daughter upstairs is fine.

Perfect.

Predictable.

Safe.

A laugh bubbled in my throat before I could stop it.

It didn’t sound amused.

It sounded thin.

I stood up and paced the room slowly.

One late cycle doesn’t mean disaster.

One fainting spell doesn’t mean anything.

Nausea can be from anything.

I stopped in front of the mirror.

“You’re not stupid,” I whispered.

But the girl staring back at me looked unsure.

I pressed my hand lightly against my stomach again.

Nothing felt different.

Nothing looked different.

So why did it feel like something had already shifted?

_________

I didn’t go back downstairs.

I told my mother I needed to rest.

She didn’t argue.

That almost made it worse.

I lay on my side, staring at the wall, trying to shrink my thoughts into something manageable.

It’s stress.

I repeated it again.

Stress messes with your body.

Stress delays things.

Stress makes you faint.

That’s logical.

Logical is safe.

My phone vibrated against the mattress.

I flinched.

Cael.

Of course.

I stared at the screen for a few seconds before answering.

“Hello?”

“You sound dead,” he said immediately.

“I’m not.”

“You skipped class.”

“I wasn’t feeling well.”

Silence.

“You fainted yesterday,” he said.

“I didn’t faint.”

“You disappeared.”

“I went home.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

I pressed my fingers into my temple.

“I just got dizzy. It’s not a crime.”

“You don’t get dizzy for no reason.”

“It was hot.”

“It wasn’t.”

I exhaled slowly.

Why does he always push?

“Why are you interrogating me?” I asked.

“Because you’ve been off all week.”

Off.

That word again.

“I’m just tired.”

“From what?”

Everything.

Nothing.

From almost collapsing in front of someone who sees too much.

“School,” I said instead. “It’s calculus season. We’re all dying.”

He didn’t laugh.

“Sam.”

That tone again.

Careful.

Soft.

“You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right?”

My chest tightened.

If I tell you, everything changes.

There’s nothing to tell.

Not yet.

“I’m fine,” I said.

The lie felt thinner today.

A pause.

Then—

“Okay,” he said.

But he didn’t sound convinced.

“Rest,” he added. “And eat something.”

“I will.”

When the call ended, I dropped the phone onto the bed beside me.

He doesn’t know.

He can’t know.

The only person who knows is—

I stopped the thought.

No.

Santos doesn’t know anything.

He just saw me.

That’s all.

Except the way he looked at me last night didn’t feel like someone who “just saw.”

It felt like someone who understood something I didn’t want to name.

I pressed my palm against my stomach again.

Flat.

Normal.

Unchanged.

So why does everything feel like it’s already shifting?

I told myself I wouldn’t check again.

I lasted three minutes.

My hand reached for my phone before I could stop it.

Calendar.

Open.

Count.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

Count again.

Slowly this time.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

My chest tightened.

No.

I exited the app.

Opened it again.

As if the numbers might rearrange themselves out of pity.

They didn’t.

I stared at the date like it had personally betrayed me.

“That’s not possible,” I whispered.

Stress.

It’s stress.

Cycles change.

Bodies adjust.

I have been sleeping badly.

I drink.

I barely eat.

There are explanations.

Logical ones.

Safe ones.

I counted again.

The number didn’t move.

It just sat there.

Solid.

Unapologetic.

My breathing slowed.

Too slow.

The room felt quieter than before. Even the fan sounded distant.

I placed my phone face-down on the bed.

Then I flipped it back over.

Counted again.

Still the same.

For the first time, I didn’t argue with it.

I didn’t explain it away.

I didn’t minimize it.

I just stared.

And something inside me went very, very still.

Not panic.

Not hysteria.

Something worse.

Recognition.

I closed my eyes.

“No,” I said softly.

The word didn’t sound convincing.

It sounded small.