Borrowed Air

Breathing used to be automatic. Now it’s something I borrow. Every inhale feels like a question my body hasn’t answered yet, and every exhale feels like a relief I don’t deserve. The machines beside my bed keep count for me — soft beeps, steady lights, gentle reminders that I am still here, even when my lungs forget how to be. The nurses say I’m stable today. Stable is a funny word. It sounds like standing, like balance, like something solid. But nothing about my body feels solid anymore. My chest burns when I breathe too deeply, so I’ve learned to take smaller breaths. Careful ones. As if air itself is fragile. Four years. That’s how long the hospital has been my address. Long enough that I can tell the time without a clock, just by the sounds in the hallway. Long enough that I know which nurse walks softly and which one always smells like citrus.....maybe.. Long enough that the ceiling above my bed feels more familiar than my own bedroom ever did....really not going to lie. I lift my phone with trembling fingers and angle the camera just right. “Hi,” I whisper, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “It’s me again.” The red recording dot blinks back at me. I’ve been talking to strangers for a while now. People who don’t know me, but somehow care. People who watch my videos and leave comments like You’re strong and Keep fighting and You inspire me. They don’t see the nights I cry into my pillow because breathing hurts too much. They don’t hear the way my lungs wheeze when I laugh. For sure people are also out there having the same problem as mine ...but to sacred to show it ...they type .."oh ..you are so brave "... wouldn't blame them though .I've heard that from doctors lots of times. And that’s okay. “This is day one thousand four hundred and…” I pause, doing the math in my head before giving up. “A lot. I’m still here.” I don’t tell them that my last transplant failed. Again. I don’t tell them the doctors are already discussing the next surgery like it’s just another appointment, not my twenty-fourth time being cut open and stitched back together. I end the video and lock my phone, letting it fall onto the bed beside me. Surviving has become routine. I stare at the window across the room. The sky outside is pale, almost colorless, like it hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet. Somewhere out there, life is moving forward. People are rushing to work, complaining about traffic, laughing over coffee. I was supposed to be one of them. My graduation cap is probably still sitting in my parents’ house, untouched. I never got to wear it. Never got to walk across the stage and hear my name called. Instead, my mother recorded it for me on her phone, crying so hard the video shakes. I watched it two years later, fresh out of a coma, my lungs screaming as I tried to process how the world kept going without me. My job offer expired while I was asleep. Sometimes I wonder what kind of person I would’ve been if the accident never happened. Would I have been happier? Louder? Less afraid of breathing too deeply? The door opens quietly. “Ava?” I ask, recognizing the soft steps before I even look. She smiles at me, that familiar gentle smile that always feels like warmth. “You should be resting.” “I am,” I lie. “Mentally.” She checks my monitors, adjusts my oxygen, her movements practiced and careful. Ava never looks at me like I’m already gone. I think that’s why I love her. After she leaves, the room feels smaller. I swing my legs off the bed slowly, the floor cold beneath my feet. My body protests, but I ignore it. There are places in this hospital that still feel like mine, and the roof is one of them. The elevator ride up is quiet. The doors open, and cool air brushes against my face. The city stretches out below me, lights flickering like distant stars. Up here, my lungs hurt a little less. Or maybe my heart just hurts more. This roof has seen me at my weakest. I come here after visiting the newborn wing sometimes, just to remind myself that beginnings still exist. I came here once when the pain felt too heavy, when the thought of another failed surgery made my chest tighten in fear. That was the night I wasn’t alone. I didn’t know his name then. I didn’t ask. He stood near the edge, hands in his pockets, eyes empty in a way that scared me. Like he wasn’t really here, like he was already halfway gone. We didn’t talk at first. We just shared the silence, the city humming beneath us. I remember thinking he looked like someone who had lost too much. I remember thinking I understood that feeling. We didn’t know each other’s stories. We didn’t need to. For a moment, breathing didn’t feel like a burden, and living didn’t feel like a punishment. I didn’t know that meeting him would change everything. I didn’t know that some connections are formed long before we ever realize it. The wind picks up, and I hug my arms around myself, turning back toward the door. Tomorrow will come whether I’m ready or not. Another day of borrowed air. Another day of fighting. I take one last breath of the night sky before heading back inside. I didn’t know then that this was only the beginning.