(May 21st | 8:34 a.m.)

I cough into my hand before croakily exclaiming, "Mom, Timmy's bothering me again!"

My five-year-old brother stomps his feet on the ground and shouts, "Am not!" His ears turn pink, and he sticks his tongue out at me.

That mischievous little rascal.

Before I can reach to attack, he storms out of my bedroom, stomping hard on the wooden stairs. My body is too exhausted to chase after him. Maybe this would be the end of me having to put up with him anyway.

Letting out a sigh, I pick up the pencil from beside me and gnaw on the end of it. What can I draw? Gazing around my room, I search for inspiration, but the only things surrounding me are scattered clothes and huddled blankets on one side of my bed.

Outside my glazed windows, a chorus of birds chirp in unison. Their calls ebb and flow like gentle ocean waves, creating a melodic dance. At times, the music soars high, bold and fearless, ready to take on the world, only to plunge deep, filled with despair and sorrow.

So I decide to draw the Kirtland's Warbler, a Michigan native bird known for its enchanting song. When listened to too closely, it has the power to peel away the layers of my worries and reveal itself as hauntingly beautiful.

As I rest my head on a pillow, a sense of serenity washes over me. For a fleeting moment, my mind and thoughts are numb. For once, I start to feel at ease. The melody of the bird's song carries me away to a distant shore, and I find myself weightless, immersed in its captivating rhythm. With my eyes closed, I let my emotions guide me, soaring up and down and drifting slowly into the hazy depths of the sky. I yearn for the song to play on, wanting to remain in this state of bliss forever as I allow my hands to work their magic. After just a few minutes, the basic shape of the bird is formed, and with care, I gradually sketch more intricate details, visualizing the bird and endeavoring to bring it to life.

A gentle breeze seeps through the slightly parted windows, carrying a chill into the room. Before I know it, I'm sneezing again, groaning into the warmth of my blanket. When the fever returns, it feels like the waves of the virus spill out from within my cells, causing me to shudder. My face grows pale, and I place two fingers against my aching throat, attempting to swallow. It feels like I'm trapped in the Sahara Desert. I release my neck and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh air in an attempt to put out the fire inside me. But then a sensation stirs in my throat, causing my stomach to clench in pain and my body to grow warm. I rush to the restroom, gagging instantly as warm bile erupts from within me. I gasp and hastily wash the sink, wiping away the remnants of my mess. This burning agony feels like an invisible flame is being pressed against my flesh.

The positive side of being sick to my stomach is. . . no school! Instead, I indulged in loads of warm food and had the house to myself, with the exception of my five-year-old brother. But I can't even seem to enjoy the rare event of having all this space to myself because my body refuses to cooperate. I'm too busy making trips to the bathroom instead of drawing.

The sound of the running water in the sink muffles the knock on the bathroom door, and I jump slightly when I notice my mom standing there.

Concern is written all over her face, but she is quick to conceal it. "Shepherd's Pie for Your Majesty. Bon appétit!" She sets the plate on my bed's side table.

"Thanks, mom," I reply, flashing her a reassuring grin to let her know I'll be alright.

She tries a smile, but it crumples instantly. With a single nod, she scans the bathroom as if searching for something I might be hiding, then walks out the door, gently closing it behind her.

I take a deep breath and glance at my reflection in the mirror.

My chocolate-colored hair looks like a disastrous clown wig, although clowns probably have those every day. Dark shadows of blemishes mask my eyes, and my face is drenched in cold sweat.

I feel a surge of excitement as I gaze at the food set in front of me, slowly making my way to the side table, my fingers clutching the edges of my arm.

I take a piece of the Shepherd's Pie, its cheesy top adorned with dark leafy greens and a body of minced beef sautéed in aromatic olive oil.

Mmm, mmm, delicious!

The warm spices nestle in my stomach, filling me up with each bite. The garlic dances on my tongue, followed by the juicy corn kernels, crisp peas, and onions. It is heaven on a plate, which only my mom can create.

The wind rustles through the trees, causing the drapes to sway and envelop me like a comforting duvet. This time, I embrace the soft breeze, smoother than silk and fresher than lemons. I realize that my sickness isn't solely the fault of my body.

It's my heart, tightly encased in a veil of melancholy.

When my eyes are tightly sealed, I can reach out to him.

But when my eyes are wide open, it's hard to accept that I might never see him.

I try to hide my tears from the world.

Especially from Mom.

But deep inside, I feel like I'm unraveling—like I'm falling apart.