---
Anne woke up the next morning with the trace of dried tears still on her cheek. The room was cold, despite the heater being on. It felt as if sorrow had seeped into the furniture, into the walls, even into her silent shadow.
She dressed in her school uniform slowly. Looking into the mirror, she whispered as though speaking to a ghost:
> "If I'm a sin… then why am I still here?"
She walked down the stairs, her heart aching. Not because the pain was new—but because no one cared about it. Not her mother. Not Nina. Not Stephen, who never missed a chance to crack a joke at her expense, making the class burst into laughter. Those jokes were always intentional, but she swallowed them… silence remained her only refuge.
She drank a glass of cold water like someone emerging from a desert, then left the house—no goodbye, no encouragement, no anything.
At school, everything felt the same. Same faces. Same laughs. Same indifference. Nina whispered something to Stephen while glancing at Anne, then burst out laughing. What hurt Anne wasn't the laughter—it was that she'd grown used to it.
During recess, she sat alone near a bare tree in the back courtyard. She drew circles in the dirt with her shoe when the two approached.
Stephen, holding Nina's hand and wearing a mocking smile, said:
— "Hey, Sad-Face."
Nina's giggle broke Anne's silence. Nina laughed:
— "Stop it, Stephen!" Then looked at Anne: "How are you?"
Anne replied in a barely audible voice:
— "I'm fine…"
Nina said: "Come on, let's head to class."
Stephen added: "Then the café… You don't mind, do you, Anne?"
She went with them. She began changing into her gym clothes, but something was wrong. It felt like a needle had pierced her heart. She sat on the floor, as if touching the earth might ease the pain.
The class started their exercises, but Anne was unwell. Her face turned pale, her lips lost color, and sweat coated her forehead. Sounds began to fade, growing distant. Her vision blurred.
Stephen spotted her from afar. He hesitated, then started walking toward her… but suddenly stopped when he saw her collapse in front of everyone.
---
In a white room, the only sound was the beeping of machines. Anne slowly opened her eyes. People instinctively turn to their mothers when afraid—but she found no one. Just a faded ceiling above her.
A single silent tear slipped down her cheek, and then… she drifted into deep sleep, like sinking.
---
The next day.
Her hospital room now hosted three people. Their faces tired, sorrowful.
Lauren, the nurse, wore her usual stern expression, but something behind her eyes looked broken.
She left the room quickly, and Anne overheard that her mother was in shock after hearing her daughter had collapsed at school without warning.
Anne looked at the ceiling again—expressionless. No sadness, no fear… only surrender.
As if she had raised a white flag to the world.
The doctor entered, holding a file and wearing a troubled look.
Doctor (gently):
> "Hello…"
He stepped closer, standing by the bed, his eyes weary from delivering bad news.
Doctor (in a low tone):
"Anne, is that right?"
She nodded silently.
Doctor (sighing):
"I'm Dr. Green. I was part of the team that received you at the emergency room yesterday."
He paused, as if searching for words that wouldn't wound, then continued:
Doctor:
"We ran a few tests… and found something we didn't expect."
She stared at him, but her expression didn't change—as if she were just waiting for it to end.
Doctor:
"I want to be honest with you… There are some abnormal indicators in your results. I can't confirm anything yet, but we need to run more tests… urgently."
Anne (faintly):
"Am I going to die?"
The doctor went quiet again, then answered softly:
Doctor:
"No one can answer that right now… but I promise you one thing—we won't hide anything from you."
He placed the file aside and added:
Doctor:
"I need you to be strong. Can we agree on that, Anne?"
She didn't answer. She turned her face toward the window, her eyes filling without a single tear falling.
---
In the room, silence hung heavy—as if the walls themselves were watching.
Anne sat on the bed, pale-faced, wrapped in covers that offered no warmth. She stared at her mother for a long moment before speaking in a dry, bitter voice:
> "Do you think my illness… is punishment for you?
Did God take revenge on you… through me?
Because I came into your life and ruined it?"
Lauren was stunned—but her expression remained stone-cold. She replied with icy calm:
> "Go to sleep, Anne."
Anne shook her head slowly, like someone collapsing inward:
> "If I were in an orphanage… I'd be better off.
At least then I wouldn't be sick.
Sometimes, having no identity… is better than being tied to someone who doesn't want you."
Then, in a trembling voice, nearly breaking:
> "You don't deserve to be called a mother.
If you were stone… your heart would've split.
All I ever asked from you… was a hug.
Just a hug, Lauren."
Lauren froze. For a moment, something inside her seemed to crack. But she said nothing.
She turned and left the room in a hurry, like someone fleeing a mirror that had just shattered their image.
---
As Lauren left, she didn't close the door—left ajar, as if to bear witness to a wound left unhealed.
Anne didn't move. She stared at the emptiness, the cold air seeping through the window, her mother's fading shadow.
Something inside her broke. It made no sound, but it roared in the heart.
She pulled the hospital blanket over her face—not for warmth, but to disappear.
She tried to sleep, but the pain in her chest felt like invisible hands crushing her lungs. Her breathing grew heavier. The tears returned—silently.
Hours passed—measured not in time, but in slowing heartbeats.
Suddenly, the monitor's alarm blared.
A nurse rushed in, followed by a doctor holding a file. His face stern, but his eyes searched for a kinder way to say the unspeakable.
He approached the bed, looked at the nearly unconscious Anne, then turned to the nurse and said:
> "Bring her mother. Her condition is deteriorating. The results… are concerning."
Lauren entered the room, face pale, eyes frantically scanning for her daughter. Anne lay there, half-conscious, struggling to breathe—as if her breaths barely slipped through a pinhole in the air.
The doctor stood at the foot of the bed, his voice calm but nerve-wracking:
Doctor:
> "Mrs. Lauren… I ran all the initial tests. The results… are unclear."
Lauren (dryly):
> "What do you mean, 'unclear'? Is she sick?"
Doctor (checking the file, then looking at her):
> "So far… the indicators don't match any known condition. Her blood pressure, white cells, oxygen levels—they're all fluctuating unpredictably. It's as if her body is collapsing… without an identifiable cause."
Lauren (in a disturbed whisper):
> "Is she going to die?"
Doctor (hesitating, then firmly):
> "I won't say that now. But we need to move her to Special Care.
Something abnormal is happening inside her… something we can't see on the machines,
but we can see it in her eyes."
Then, stepping closer to Lauren, in a lower voice:
> "Sometimes, extreme emotional pain… causes physical collapse.
Is she going through something?"
Lauren said nothing. She looked at Anne, then out the window,
as if searching for an answer… in the void.
---