Aniela sat stiffly on the edge of the hospital chair, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles had turned pale. The room felt smaller now, like the walls had crept closer while no one was looking. Her chest still felt tight, as if the air itself had grown heavier.
“I… I need to explain my side,” Aniela finally said, her voice quiet but strained. The words felt fragile, like glass—one wrong move and they’d shatter.
Erelah leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees. “Okay,” she said gently. “We’re listening.”
Aniela swallowed. Her throat felt dry, her tongue heavy. “And it’s this or that,” she began, waving a hand vaguely, frustration slipping into her tone. “Every choice feels wrong. No matter what I do, someone gets hurt. Or confused. Or worse.”
She let out a
