Trouble

Fractures and Facades

Chapter Three: Fractures and Facades

Sarah Martin sat at her desk, notebook open, pen tapping a slow, anxious rhythm against the paper. The questions on her AP World History study guide stared back at her, unanswered. The ink on her last written line had smudged where her hand trembled just a little too much.

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made everything feel heavier. Down the hall, her mom was on a conference call. Her dad wouldn’t be back from work until late. Gemma wasn’t texting much today—not after this morning’s treatment. Sarah had left the hospital early to try and catch up on schoolwork, but the silence felt too loud.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her chemistry partner, reminding her about the lab write-up due tomorrow.

Sarah ignored it.

I need to finish at least one assignment today, she told herself. Just one.

But even that felt like climbing Everest with no oxygen.

She stared at the pages. The French Revolution—cause, key figures, consequences. It was all a blur of dates and decapitations.

Her eyes drifted to the whiteboard above her desk. A to-do list scribbled in different colors, now mostly crossed out or faded from time. At the bottom, a note Gemma had written months ago still clung to the corner:

You got this, nerd.

—with a crooked little smiley face.

Sarah closed her eyes and took a breath. You got this, she repeated silently.

But she didn’t feel like she did.

Third period used to be her favorite—AP World History. She liked the structure, the cause and effect, the logic behind every uprising and revolution. Lately, though, it felt like she was living one. Her thoughts wandered during lectures, and her last quiz grade was a 73. Her teacher, Mr. Harrow, had given her a quiet look when he handed it back—some mix of concern and caution. He hadn’t said anything, but she knew he knew.

Still, Sarah hadn’t told Gemma. She couldn’t. How do you say “Hey, my life is falling apart” to someone who’s literally fighting for hers?

At lunch, Sarah sat alone with her textbook and picked at a salad she hadn’t wanted. She opened a tab on her laptop and typed: “creative history video project ideas.” The cursor blinked. Her heart wasn’t in it.

Across the cafeteria, laughter echoed. Friends joked, couples leaned close. Life marched on, oblivious.

Her phone buzzed again.

Gemma’s Mom: Hey sweetheart, quick question. Have you noticed any changes in Gemma’s mood lately? She’s been more withdrawn after treatment. Not sad exactly. Just… somewhere else.

Sarah blinked at the message. Her thumbs hovered.

Yeah, she wanted to say. She smiles, but it's not always real. She zones out sometimes. And I think she's scared.

Instead, she typed,

Sarah: A little. She’s tired more often. But she’s still Gemma.

A few seconds later, the reply came in:

Gemma’s Mom: Thanks, honey. Her last scans weren’t great. We’re trying a new round next week.

Sarah put her phone down.

The cafeteria suddenly felt too big. Too loud. Too far from everything that mattered.

That night, Sarah sat cross-legged on the floor of her room, laptop in her lap, textbooks scattered like debris. She opened a document titled “History Final Video Draft” and stared at the blinking cursor again.

Gemma can’t help with this. She needs rest. And Mom and Dad have enough to deal with. Just push through, Sarah. Just keep going.

Except she was tired too.

And somewhere between the quiz scores and the unread emails and the quiet weight of Gemma’s illness, something inside her was cracking. Quietly, invisibly. But definitely cracking.

She didn’t cry. She never did, not really. But her hands shook just a little as she reached into her backpack and pulled out the script she and Gemma had started writing weeks ago—before things got worse.

There, in the margins, was a doodle Gemma had added: a tiny guillotine with cartoon eyes and a speech bubble that said, “OFF WITH THEIR HEADS! :)”

Sarah smiled.

For the first time in days, she smiled.

She picked up her pen and began to write again.