Page 84 of We Can Stay
“You did?” Maya’s eyes widen. “What happened?”
Hannah guides me to a cushion with gentle hands. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”
She moves to the station in the corner where we keep an electric kettle and an impressive collection of herbal teas. Her movements are careful, measured—I recognize the signs of a pain day even as she tries to hide it.
“He was trying to manage my life, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.” The words tumble out as the others settle around me, their projects temporarily abandoned.
“Your life?” Devin’s brow furrows. “Like, your work?”
“More than that.” I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. The debate only takes a millisecond before I’m spilling everything. “Managing my house. My symptoms. My health. I... had an appointment the other day, and my inflammation levels are still high despite the steroids I’m on.”
I pause, heart hammering. This is the moment. The truth I’ve been carrying alone for too long.
“And I also have pericarditis. Inflammation of the heart.”
“You do?” Alexis’s bangles jangle as her hands still completely. “Since when?”
Hannah returns with a steaming mug of chamomile and passes it to me. Still, she says nothing, but I catch the flash of hurt in her eyes before she looks away. That hurts worse than any physical pain.
“A while ago.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t tell you all because I felt that if I didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t be as much of a big deal. I know that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.” Maya reaches over to squeeze my knee. “I understand completely. Sometimes naming things makes them too real.”
I wrap both hands around the mug, absorbing its warmth, trying to pull myself together but failing spectacularly. It’s like the more I share, the more undone I become. Years of careful control unraveling faster than a dropped stitch.
But... maybe that’s a good thing. I’ve been keeping all of this to myself for too long, each secret adding weight until I can barely stand. I’m starting to see that it’s eating me up from the inside out, more corrosive than any dye chemical.
“My doctor told me to slow down.” The words taste bitter. “The pericarditis could be temporary, or it could be a longer thing. A dangerous thing. It could lead to surgery down the road.”
“Is it painful?” Maya’s voice is soft, understanding.
I bite my lip again. “It’s pretty bad. Like someone’s squeezing my heart in their fist. It stops me in my tracks, for sure. And that’s it. That’s what I hate the most.”
The frustration bubbles up, hot and familiar. “I’m finally making real progress in my career. My YouTube and Twitch channels are growing—thousands of new followers just this week. I have more specialty orders than I can handle. Customcolorways, exclusive yarns for indie dyers. I know what my doctor said, but I can’t just stop doing things.”
My hands gesture wildly, tea sloshing dangerously. “I have bills to pay, and opportunities won’t be there forever. The algorithm doesn’t care if you’re sick. If this pericarditis does do me in... if I die early... I want to make sure that I achieved everything I wanted to. It’s important.”
The last word comes out fierce, desperate. I let out a shuddering sigh, feeling like I’ve just set down a thousand-pound weight. The need to pursue my goals is still there, burning bright, but the sting from not achieving them yet has lessened somehow.
“I’m sorry.” I hang my head, watching a tear splash into my tea. “I didn’t feel good about keeping this from you?—”
“You don’t owe us anything.” Alexis’s hand covers mine, warm and steady. “It’s your life. You don’t have to tell us everything. But I understand it. I also feel the pressure of achieving all my goals before I run out of time. It’s like chronic illness has sped everything up. The years feel like they’re slipping through my fingers.”
“Yep.” Devin picks up her temperature blanket again, fingers moving automatically. “We’re supposed to slow down, but how can we do that when we’re working with fewer resources than most people? Less energy, more medical appointments, bodies that betray us at the worst moments.”
Hannah finally speaks up from her cushion, where she’s settled with her own knitting. “I know I’m guilty of burning the candle at both ends sometimes. I don’t even realize it until someone else points it out... five or six times.”
There’s a group chuckle, rueful and knowing. Everyone can relate to pushing too hard, ignoring the warning signs until collapse is inevitable.
Hannah’s smile is gentle, and the warmth of it reaches my deepest wounds. It’s such a relief to have her talking to me, looking at me without judgment, that I almost start crying again.
“You’re not alone,” Maya says, adjusting her project—lacework so delicate it looks like captured fog. “We get it. The push and pull between taking care of ourselves and living our lives.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words inadequate for the gratitude flooding through me.
“Also, I’m sorry about Sebastian.”
His name is a dart to my heart, sharp and precise. I wince, remembering his hands in mine, the way he looked at me like I was something precious. The way he tried to wrap me in bubble wrap when I needed wings.
