Page 47 of Rhys: and the girl who was always his

It’s the kind of knowing that punches through sleep, that drags your body awake before your mind can catch up.

The room is still dim, grey light bleeding through the half-closed curtains. I’m warm under the blanket, curled around Ally, my arm draped over her waist, my face buried in the soft skin of her neck.

And she’s shaking.

At first, I think she’s cold.

Or dreaming.

Maybe she’s crying.

But then I feel it—her entire body jerking violently against mine, stiff and rigid like she’s locked inside her own skin.

“Ally?”

My voice is groggy, half-slurred with sleep and confusion, but panic surges through me so fast it yanks me fully awake.

“Ally—”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are open, wide, and glassy, but not seeing me. Her limbs spasm again, a harsh, unnatural movement that sends terror tearing through my chest.

She’s not crying. Not dreaming.

She’s seizing.

I scramble up, heart hammering so loud it feels like it might drown out everything else. My hands fumble as I reach for my phone. My fingers shake so badly I almost drop it, but somehow I hit the call button.

Yasmin.

Yasmin will know what to do and always sleeps with her phone on loud.

She answers on the second ring. Her voice is thick with sleep but sharp with concern. “Rhys?”

“It’s Ally.” My throat feels raw. “She—she’s having a seizure. I don’t know what to do. Yas, I don’t know what to do.”

She doesn’t waste time. “Okay. First, put her on her side. Make sure there’s nothing around her she could hit or choke on. Don’t hold her down, Just let it happen. And start timing it.”

“Okay,” I breathe, nodding like she can see me. I gently roll Ally onto her side, my hands trembling as I shift the pillows and pull the blanket out of the way. Her arms are still twitching, her mouth slack. Her breathing is shallow and uneven. I’ve never felt more helpless.

“How long has it been?” Yasmin asks.

“A minute? Maybe two.” Time feels warped, stretched, twisted, and completely out of reach.

“If it goes past five, you call an ambulance,” she says calmly. “But she’ll probably stop soon. Just stay with her.”

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I sit beside her, knees pressed to the mattress, hand hovering uselessly over her back. I hesitate to touch her, worried about the consequences. Every instinct in me screams todo something—but all I can do is wait.

Seconds crawl.

And then, mercifully, the shaking starts to fade.

Her limbs go still. Her body slackens, softening like a puppet with its strings cut.

I press my hand gently to her shoulder, then brush the damp strands of hair from her face. Her skin is clammy, her lashes fluttering.

“She’s not awake yet,” I tell Yasmin.

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