The call comes during morning practice.

      I'm running plays when I see Riley drop her camera. The sound of it hitting the ground echoes across the field like a gunshot, making everyone turn. The shattered lens pieces scatter across the track, glinting in the early morning sun like broken stars.

      But Riley doesn't even look at her beloved camera. She's already running to the parking lot, phone pressed to her ear.

      My heart stops before I even know why.

      The team freezes mid-play. Coach Reynolds meets my eyes and waves me off before I can ask. He gets it. He's seen enough of our story unfold on this field to understand that when Riley runs, I follow.

      "Go," Mike calls after me. "We've got your back."

      I sprint after her, cleats still on, probably tearing up the parking lot asphalt. By the time I reach her car, she's fumbling with her keys, hands shaking so badly she can't get them in the ignition.

      "Lucy collapsed at school," she gasps when I open her door. Her voice has that hollow quality it gets when she's trying not to shatter. "They called an ambulance. I need to... I have to..."

      The words tangle in her throat, choking her. Her hands are shaking harder now, keys slipping from her grip.

      "I'll drive." I gently pull her out of the driver's seat. "Give me the keys, Riley."

      She does, which scares me more than anything. Riley never gives up control easily.

      The fact that she hands over her keys without argument tells me exactly how terrified she is.

      The drive to the hospital is a blur of red lights and Riley's ragged breathing. Her fingers tap an anxious rhythm against her thigh - not her usual artist's contemplation, but something more desperate, like she's trying to hold herself together through motion alone.

      She keeps checking her phone, muttering about Uncle James being in surgery and not answering and how this can't be happening again. Each time she says "again," her voice gets smaller, more broken.

      "Not again," she whispers. "Not again, not again, not again..."

      I reach for her hand, but she pulls away, wrapping her arms around herself. Starting to shut down. I recognize the signs - how she makes herself smaller, builds her walls higher. It's the same thing she did when I found her art room sketches of the accident.

      The city blurs past us, streets I normally know becoming unfamiliar in our rush. Every red light feels like an eternity. Every slow driver becomes an obstacle between Riley and her sister.

      I think about Lucy this morning, how she looked fine at breakfast when I picked them up. She was telling Riley about her science project - something about star formations and gravitational pulls.

      How could everything change so fast?

      But then, I remember Riley saying that about her parents. How normal the morning was, how they talked about her art show over breakfast, how everything was fine until suddenly it wasn't.

      The emergency room entrance looms ahead, its red letters harsh in the light. Riley's out of the car before I fully stop, leaving her door open in her rush.

      Inside is chaos. The waiting room is packed with emergencies - a kid with a bloody nose, an elderly man in a wheelchair, a woman cradling her wrist. Riley runs to the desk, demanding information about her sister. I hang back, watching her argue with the nurse who says only immediate family can go back.

      "I am her family!" Riley's voice breaks, and something in my chest breaks with it. "I'm her sister! Please, I need to—"

      She's starting to spiral, her breaths coming faster. I step forward, ready to intervene, when a voice cuts through the tension.

      "Riley Quinn?"

      A doctor appears, looking tired. She's young, with kind eyes and a clipboard tucked under her arm. "Lucy's asking for you."

      Riley sags with relief, and I catch her elbow to steady her. The doctor - her nametag reads Dr. Clarkson - leads us down a maze of corridors, explaining as we walk.

      "It seems to be a complication from her condition. Her blood pressure dropped significantly, causing the fainting spell. We're running tests, but she's stable now."

      Riley nods mechanically, but I can see her spiraling. Her fingers pick at her sleeves—a dangerous tell I've learned to watch for. Each step down the sterile hallway seems to wind her tighter, like she's walking through memories instead of just hospital corridors.

      Lucy's in a pediatric room, looking small in the hospital bed but alert. The room is disgustingly cheerful, with cartoon characters painted on the walls and colorful mobiles hanging from the ceiling. Someone's attempted to make illness less scary through primary colours and smiling animals.

      It's not working.

      But Lucy - eternal optimist Lucy - seems unbothered by any of it. Her face lights up when she sees us, like this is just another adventure instead of a medical emergency.

      "Riley! Ethan! Did you see how fast the ambulance went? They let me turn on the siren!"

      Riley makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, rushing to her sister's side. I hang back, letting them have their moment. From here, I can see how Lucy's trying to be brave for Riley, hiding her own fear behind excitement. How Riley's hands shake as she smooths Lucy's hair, checking her over like she's cataloging everything.

      "Don't you ever scare me like that again," Riley says. The fluorescent lights make them both look pale, emphasizing the shadows under Riley's eyes. "Ever."

      "I'm okay." Lucy catches Riley's hand, stilling its nervous movement. "Really. The doctor says I just forgot to take my morning medicine. It won't happen again."

But Riley's not really listening. I can see her checking every monitor, every reading, her breath coming faster. Her eyes dart between the machines like she's trying to memorize their numbers, like maybe if she watches hard enough nothing bad can happen.

"I should have reminded you." Her voice rises, taking on that edge I recognize from her panic attacks. "I should have checked. I should have—"

"Riley." I step forward, touching her shoulder. I can feel how tightly she's wound, like a spring about to snap. "Breathe."

She flinches away from my touch. "I need air."

Before I can stop her, she's gone, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click that sounds too final.

Lucy sighs, suddenly looking older than her fourteen years. "Go after her," she says quietly. "She gets like this sometimes. When she's scared of losing people."

I hesitate, looking between the door and the bed. "Will you be okay alone?"

"I'm not alone." She points to her hamster carrier in the corner—someone must have brought it from home. "I have Oscar. And Riley needs you more than I do right now."

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

I find Riley in the hospital garden, pacing between rows of wilting autumn flowers. Her sleeves are pushed up, and my heart stops when I see fresh scratches on her arms. Red lines against pale skin, like she's been trying to claw her way out of her own fear.

The garden is small, more concrete than nature, but it's quiet. Away from the beeping monitors and squeaking shoes on linoleum. A place where people come to receive good news or process bad news or just breathe between the moments that change everything.

"Riley."

She spins to face me, eyes wild, mascara smeared under her eyes. In the harsh daylight, she looks younger somehow. More like the eighteen-year-old she actually is, instead of the adult she's had to become.

"I can't... I can't do this. Not again. Not here. Not—"

I close the distance between us, catching her hands before she can hurt herself more. Her fingers are ice cold, trembling against my palms.

"Lucy's okay," I say firmly. "She's awake and making jokes about ambulance sirens. This isn't like your parents."

"But it could have been!" The words tear out of her like they've been clawing at her throat. "One phone call, one moment of not paying attention, and I could lose her too! I can't... I can't..."

The last word dissolves into a sob that seems to break something in her. She crumples then, like a marionette with cut strings, and I catch her, lowering us both to the ground. She fights me at first, trying to pull away, but I hold on.

The concrete is cold through my practice uniform. Somewhere above us, a helicopter takes off from the medical pad. But I just hold her, letting her fall apart in the only place she feels safe enough to break.

"I'm here," I whisper into her hair. It smells like paint and charcoal and fear. "I've got you. You're not alone this time."

"I can't lose her." Her voice breaks on each word. "She's all I have left."

"That's not true." I pull back enough to see her face, gently wiping tears from her cheeks. "You have me. You have Uncle James. You have a whole team of people who love you."

"But—"

"No buts." I touch her cheek, making her look at me. The morning sun catches on her tears, making them look like the stars she's always drawing. "Remember what you told me that night on the bridge? About not being alone?"

She nods slightly. Her breathing is steadier now, though her hands still shake where they're gripping my shirt.

"Same goes for you. You don't have to carry everything by yourself anymore."

Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, but these feel different. Like relief instead of panic. "I'm supposed to be stronger than this."

"Says who?" I wipe her tears with my thumb. "You're allowed to break sometimes, Riley. You're allowed to need help."

"I don't know how." Her voice is small, almost lost in the sound of traffic beyond the garden walls. "I've been taking care of everyone else for so long..."

The admission costs her. I can see it in how she curls into herself, like showing vulnerability is physically painful.

"I know." I kiss her forehead, tasting salt and fear. "So let me take care of you for a while."

She curls into me then, finally letting herself cry. Really cry, not the controlled tears she usually allows herself. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere deep and broken, that sounds like years of holding it together finally falling apart.

I hold her through it, murmuring stories about stars and bridges and all the reasons we choose to stay alive. About constellations that look like bridges, about stars that save each other from collapse, about all the ways the universe shows us we're meant to survive.

When she's cried herself out, I help her clean the scratches on her arms. We don't talk about them—that conversation will come later, with Dr. Williams. For now, I just hold her hands so she can't make more.

The garden has filled with more people now. A nurse on break. A family celebrating good news. A man pacing while he talks on his phone. None of them look at us.

"Ready to go back in?" I ask after a while. The sun has moved, casting different shadows across the withering flowers.

She nods, then stops. "Wait."

"What?"

"Thank you." She touches my face, her fingers still trembling slightly. "For being my bridge this time."

My heart squeezes. "Always."

Lucy's dozing when we return, her dark hair fanned out against the white hospital pillow. The room is quieter now, the beeping of monitors a steady rhythm that matches her breathing. She wakes up enough to scoot over, making room for Riley on the narrow bed without either of them having to say a word.

I pull up a chair, settling in for the wait. My phone buzzes with texts from the team - checking in, offering to bring food, asking what they can do. Mike's already grabbed Riley's broken camera from the field, promising to get it repaired. These guys, who I once thought only cared about playing and winning, showing up in ways I never expected.

Uncle James arrives an hour later, still in surgical scrubs. His face is lined with exhaustion and worry, but he manages a small smile when he sees us. He takes one look at Riley curled protectively around her sleeping sister and his face softens.

"You did good," he tells me quietly while Riley dozes. "Keeping her grounded."

I shake my head. "She's stronger than she thinks."

"Yes." He squeezes my shoulder, his eyes knowing. "But sometimes the strong ones need someone to lean on too."

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

The next few hours blur together in that way hospital time does - simultaneously too fast and too slow. Doctors come and go, explaining Lucy's new medication schedule. Riley listens with intense focus, asking questions and taking notes in her sketchbook. Each page fills with medical terms and dosage times, interspersed with her usual star doodles like she's trying to make sense of it all through art.

But she doesn't let go of my hand.

When Lucy's finally cleared to go home, Riley helps her get dressed while I bring the car around.

As I wait in the parking lot, I think about bridges and breaking points and all the ways we save each other. About how sometimes strength looks like holding someone while they break, and sometimes love looks like letting yourself be held.

"You know what?" Lucy says as we help her into the car. Her voice is tired but bright. "I think today was actually kind of amazing."

Riley makes a choked sound. "Amazing?"

"Yeah!" Lucy grins, and for a moment she looks exactly like her sister. "I got to ride in an ambulance, Ethan missed practice to be with us, and now we all have an excuse to eat ice cream for dinner."

I catch Riley's eye. For a moment, I see the ghost of that night on the bridge, and how far we've come since then. How far we still have to go.

But this time, she's not alone with her fears. This time, she has people to catch her when she falls. A team that protects their own. A sister who knows how to make light in dark places. An uncle who understands. And me, learning how to be someone's bridge instead of needing one.

"Ice cream sounds perfect," I say. "As long as it's not Neapolitan."

Lucy laughs. Riley manages a small smile. And something shifts, like stars aligning into new constellations.

Because sometimes crisis shows us who we really are. Sometimes breaking shows us how to be stronger. And sometimes love means being someone else's bridge when their world is falling apart.

"Hey Riley?" Lucy pipes up from the backseat.

"Hmm?"

"Did you know there are stars that exist in pairs? Like, they orbit each other and keep each other from flying away into space?"

Riley's hand finds mine across the console. "Yeah, Lu. I might have heard that somewhere before."

As we drive home through the fading day, I think about those binary stars. About orbits and gravity and all the forces that keep us from flying apart. About how sometimes the universe gives us exactly what we need, even if it comes in unexpected ways.

Like broken cameras and hospital gardens. Like sisters who understand stars. Like love that builds bridges across the darkest spaces.

Like finding family in all the broken places, and learning how to be whole together.