SURVIVING THE SHADOWS

The dialysis machine hummed beside me for what felt like the thousandth time—steady, mechanical, indifferent. A calculated rhythm measuring the distance between me and whatever waited on the other side. Less than a month. That was the estimate. Funny thing is, I never felt particularly alive to begin with. I shifted in bed, an uncomfortable pressure building very low in my abdomen. I needed the restroom. I tugged at the needle in my hand absentmindedly—just a small adjustment. Too hard. Red bloomed instantly through the tubing, hot and violent where clear IV fluid had been. My stomach dropped. The room tilted. My vision fractured at the edges before collapsing entirely. Sound warped into something thick and distant. Then— Darkness. Hands grabbed at me. Voices overlapped. Metal trays clattered. Rubber soles scraped sharply against the floor. Tubes were adjusted. Needles reinserted. Through the chaos, I heard her. “Disha!” Kylie. My only family. “Disha, what’s wrong? What’s happening? Are you okay?” The fear in her voice cut through the fog clearer than anything else. It anchored me. Since our parents died, she had been everything. Sister. Guardian. Provider. She worked five shifts just to keep the hospital bills from swallowing us whole. She didn’t have a life because of me. I wasn’t allowed to let go. Am I dead? Is this what the end feels like? “I’m okay…” I whispered. It sounded like a lie even to me. Kylie didn’t believe it either. Her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears, panic barely restrained beneath the surface. She looked heartbroken. I exhaled softly. She’s dramatic. But the thought of leaving felt hollow. ⸻ Hours later, the crisis was reduced to something clinical. “Complication managed.” “Vitals stabilized.” The language of professionals who did not live inside the bodies they repaired. Kylie helped me wash up, her movements gentle, controlled. She never let her hands shake in front of me. When I settled back into bed, I felt it—an unfamiliar stillness in the room. Not medical. Not frantic. Composed. I looked up. And there he was. Calm. Impeccably put together. Almost detached from the sterile atmosphere around him. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not beside a dying girl’s hospital bed. “Richard…?” His name left my lips more like a question than a greeting. Kylie followed my gaze and smiled faintly. “He came back to the country a few days ago. Visited the house. I told him you were here, and he insisted on coming.” Of course he did. “I had a feeling you forgot I was waiting downstairs,” Richard said smoothly. “So I asked around for your room.” His tone was light. Controlled. He lifted a thermos in one hand. Kylie offered him a seat, then excused herself for errands. She left too quickly, throwing me a wink on her way out. Seriously? Richard unpacked the food carefully. Rice cakes. Chicken soup. Beef dumplings. Fruit salad. Exactly what I used to eat during high school breaks. He noticed. He remembered. “I don’t know if your taste changed,” he said casually, “but you used to love these.” He kept talking, but I barely heard him. He remembered. That was enough. He watched me as I ate, not hovering, not fussing—just observing. When a drop of soup slipped near the corner of my mouth, he reached out and wiped it away with his thumb. The gesture was gentle. Intimate. Deliberate. “Kylie told me about your condition,” he said quietly. Condition. As if I were something temporary. Repairable. “When I got back, I applied to be tested as a donor.” He paused just long enough. “I’ve already passed the preliminary screening. I’m compatible, Disha.” The words settled heavily between us. “You don’t have to suffer like this.” My throat tightened. “No… this is too much. How could I ever repay you? I can’t accept something like that.” He studied me for a moment before leaning closer. “I’m not doing this so you’ll owe me,” he said. A slight pause. “Walking away would be much worse.” Something in his voice felt layered. Not romantic. Not entirely selfless. Certain. We spoke a little longer after that. Familiar memories. High school corridors. Cafeteria windows. Versions of ourselves that felt distant now. When he pulled me into a hug, I didn’t resist. I cried quietly against his shoulder. Exhaustion crept in soon after. My body drifted between sleep and wakefulness, each time finding his gaze still fixed on me. Watching. Unmoving. I was almost fully under when his voice cut through the haze. Low. Sharp. Controlled. “f**k my medical history. I’ll give her my kidney if that’s what it takes.” My heart jolted awake. Medical history? The line disconnected. By the time I forced my eyes open, he was already beside me, adjusting my pillow as if nothing had happened. “Richard…is there something I need to know?” My voice was fragile. “Are you sick? Are you putting yourself at risk for me?” He smiled. Reassuring. Smooth. Measured. “I passed the tests, didn’t I?” That wasn’t an answer. But it was designed to feel like one. “Your surgery date should be confirmed soon,” he added. Soon. For the first time in months, I allowed myself to imagine survival. A future where I wasn’t tethered to machines. Where Kylie could finally breathe. Where Richard stood beside me. Hope crept in quietly. It didn’t feel warm. It felt conditional.