Fiona's POV

I fought to pry my heavy eyelids open, my senses grappling with the stark scent of antiseptic that stung my nostrils. Something cold and foreign curled around my nostrils, a tube helping me to breathe. Shifting slightly, I caught a glimpse of Mum fast asleep beside me, her head tilted and the soft rise and fall of her chest a comforting sight.

Desperate to move, I tried to sit up, but my attempts only stirred Mum from her slumber.

“Fiona, dear, how are you feeling?” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.

“I’m okay, just a bit of a headache,” I replied, forcing a small smile.

“I’ll get Dr. Morris,” she said, urgency in her voice as she dashed out of the room.

With her gone, I took a moment to survey my surroundings. The familiar white walls, the sterile environment—it felt like déjà vu. Why was it always me who ended up here?

Moments later, Mum returned, this time accompanied by Dr. Morris, his stethoscope poised like a sentinel around his neck.

“Hey, Doc,” I greeted him, my voice hoarse.

“Hi Fiona, how are you?” he asked, and I could see concern etched across his face.

“Just a headache. What happened?” I inquired, my curiosity piqued.

“You had a heat stroke and lost consciousness at school. There’s also quite a bit of mucus in your lungs...” Dr. Morris explained, his tone calm yet serious.

“That’s not news to me. What’s the game plan this time?” I asked, hoping for something more than just the usual.

“We’ll give you some mucolytics, but you need to step up your ACBT exercises,” he advised.

“I do them religiously, but it feels like I’m fighting a losing battle with this mucus,” I huffed, my frustration boiling over.

“Fiona?!” Mum shot me a warning look, but my patience was wearing thin.

This was my reality, day after day, a constant cycle of treatments and struggles that I had faced since I was two. It was exhausting, and I was tired of the fight.

“I understand your frustration, but we can only do so much,” Dr. Morris said gently before he stepped out of the room.

I knew it wasn’t his fault. He was doing his best, but it felt like a never-ending uphill battle.

“I know it’s hard, sweetheart, but you have to keep pushing through,” Mum said, her voice soft as she leaned closer.

“I’ve kept going this far, but I can’t... I can’t do this anymore...” I whispered, tears spilling down my cheeks, my voice breaking.

Mum rushed forward, enveloping me in a warm embrace, her presence a soothing balm against my pain. I sobbed in her arms, the heaviness of my heart spilling out in desperate gasps.

“It’s alright, dear. You’ll be okay,” she whispered, stroking my back as though to ease the storm inside me.

“When?” I choked out.

“Soon, dear. Soon,” she promised, her voice a gentle anchor.

My eyelids grew heavy, and before long, darkness welcomed me once more.

When I came to, I found my parents dozing on the couch, their worry etched in the lines of their faces.

Great. Just what I needed—more stress for them.

I pushed myself up from the bed, dragging my oxygen tank with me as I navigated the hospital corridors. A stroll outside was exactly what I needed. Once in the yard, I claimed a solitary spot, observing the nurses assisting patients, some accompanied by loved ones, while others sat in solitude, much like me.

I had my pen and journal with me, the familiar tools of my sanctuary. Writing was my escape, a way to unravel my thoughts when they became too tangled. So, I began to write, letting the words flow freely, a balm to my troubled heart.

After some time, I returned to my room where Mum and Dad were now awake.

“Where did you go?” Dad asked, concern flickering in his eyes.

“Just needed some fresh air,” I replied, hoping to ease their worry.

"Dinner will be here soon. You haven't eaten since yesterday," Mum added.

"I heard meat broth is on the menu!" Dad exclaimed, a hint of excitement breaking through his worry.

I chuckled, but it quickly turned into a cough. Mum handed me a glass of water, and after a few agonizing moments, the cough subsided, but not before a flash of red startled me.

I wiped my mouth, brushing the incident aside.

“Do you want a protein shake for now?” Mum offered.

“Thanks, but I’ll wait for dinner. What are you two having?” I asked, hoping for something hearty.

“I packed us sandwiches for lunch,” Dad replied, his earlier excitement unchanged.

“That sounds good,” I said, my stomach rumbling in agreement.

Just a few minutes later, a staff member wheeled in a tray laden with meat broth and mashed potatoes.

“Thanks,” I said with a grateful smile.

I ate slowly, cautious to avoid another coughing fit. After about twenty minutes and much deliberate chewing, I finished my meal.

“Want to watch some TV?” Dad suggested a hopeful glimmer in his eye.

“Sure!” I replied, trying to find some joy in the moment.

“How are you feeling, Fiona?” Mum asked quietly, her concern palpable.

“Not too bad,” I lied, wanting to keep my worries at bay.

“Sam and Taylor called earlier. You can talk to them tomorrow,” Dad mentioned, trying to lift the mood.

“Fine, I’ll reach out tomorrow. I’m just so bored,” I sighed.

“I thought you liked this show,” Mum noted, glancing at the screen.

“I do, but it’s not hitting right now,” I admitted, frustration creeping back in.

“Alright, your dad and I will watch this. Why don’t you find something on your phone?” Mum suggested, understanding my need for a distraction.

As they turned their attention to the TV, I pulled out my phone, hoping to escape the heavy weight of reality for just a little while longer.