Page 47 of Rhythm and Rapture

But tonight, I can fall apart knowing that I'm not as alone as I thought I was. And for the first time since Maria died, that knowledge feels like strength instead of weakness.

PRESENT DAY

Kael wakes at 4 a.m. drenched in sweat, his cries so quiet I almost miss them beneath the steady beep of monitors. I'm at his bedside before I'm fully awake, muscle memory from eighteen months of treatment—every hospital admission since diagnosis, the post-surgery recovery, the brutal nights between chemo rounds, the home care crises, and now this.

"I'm here, baby. Mommy is here.”

But he's not really hearing me. His eyes are huge and unfocused, jaw locked, body starting to tremor. I know thisdance—I hit the call button and hold him as his muscles seize, every tiny limb rigid as piano wire. The nurse arrives as his lips peel back in that terrible silent rictus I see in my nightmares.

"How long?" she asks, already paging the resident.

"Two minutes. Maybe three." I'm counting in my head, the way I learned to during his first post-chemo seizures.

When it finally passes, he sags against me like a broken doll. His heart flutters against my chest, too fast, too light—a hummingbird trapped in a cage made of ribs. The resident arrives, increases his Keppra, orders more blood work, dims the lights. Routine adjustments to medications that are slowly poisoning him while trying to save him.

I slump back in the visitor chair, staring at my hands. They're shaking as badly as Kael's were, and the thought that follows is as familiar as it is destructive:I did this.

My phone buzzes.

Ash: Okay, we're officially worried. Are you avoiding us? Did we do something wrong?

The text blurs as tears I didn't know were coming spill over. I want to tell them the truth—that what happened between us was the first time I felt whole since Maria died. That I've replayed every moment during these endless hospital nights. That they gave me something I didn't even know I was starving for.

But my reality is this: a five-year-old whose body is failing, who needs me stable and present and not distracted by wants I've trained myself to ignore.

Hours later, after Kael's stabilized and sleeping, I escape to the bathroom. Seventeen missed calls. Forty-three texts. The parallel hits me hard—eighteen months ago, I swallowed my pride and called Kade because Kael was dying and money could fix it.

Now I'm doing the opposite, pushing away three men who've already seen every carefully hidden part of me. Because this time it's not about money. It's about needing them in ways that terrify me more than any medical crisis.

The truth I can't escape, sitting on this bathroom floor at 7 a.m., is that I'm drowning. I've been strong for so long—had to be, no other choice. When you grow up the responsible one, the one who checks if your sister ate between highs, who does homework while monitoring overdoses, who plans for contingencies because every adult in your life is one bad day from disappearing—you learn that needing people is dangerous.

Maria taught me that loving someone doesn't mean they'll choose you. That being good and smart and trying your hardest doesn't guarantee anyone will stay. So I learned to be enough on my own. To never need more than I could provide myself.

But Roman, Ash, and Felix didn't treat me like a project or a fantasy. They saw me—brilliant and broken and trying so hard to hold it all together. And now I'm hiding in a hospital bathroom, terrified not of their rejection but of how desperately I want to stop being strong. To let someone else carry some of this weight.

To admit I need them—not their money, not their fame, just them—would be admitting I'm not as self-sufficient as I've pretended. That maybe I've been drowning for years and just gotten good at holding my breath.

My hands shake as I type:

Sabina: Just need some space. Thank you for everything.

I turn off my phone before their responses can weaken my resolve. Before I do something stupid like admit that space is the last thing I need… that what I need is arms strong enough to hold me while I finally, finally fall apart.

Chapter Eighteen

"Space?"Ash hurls his phone across the studio apartment, and it ricochets off a pillow, barely missing a half-empty Red Bull and nearly hitting Felix, who doesn't even flinch. "What the fuck does that mean? We had something real, and now she needs 'space'?"

I'm pacing again, wearing a track in the hardwood, my usual songwriting restlessness amplified by something sharper. It's been over a week since Sabina went silent. The last message in our group chat was Ash confirming she got home safelythat Thursday night after the shoot. Since then—nothing. Radio silence.

Felix picks up Ash's phone, setting it on the counter with his typical precision. "Maybe that's all it was for her. A project. Maybe we read more into it than was actually there."

"Bullshit." Ash is on his feet now, drumsticks materializing in his hands like they always do when he's agitated. He's tapping out anxious rhythms on every surface—the couch arm, the wall, the air itself. "You felt what I felt. We all did. You saw her face, heard the way she said our names. That wasn't performance."

"Then what changed?" Felix asks, looking at me like I'm supposed to have answers. "According to the internet, the content is breaking records. There are whole threads speculating about whether we're the 'mystery musicians' in the video—though we've denied it every time Artisan asks."

"Maybe that's what freaked her out," Ash suggests, but even he sounds doubtful. "The attention? The speculation?"

"No." I stop pacing, certainty crystallizing. "She knew what she was signing up for. Hell, she probably calculated the exact viral coefficient before she agreed to it."

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