Same hospital gown.
Different day.
Smaller bones.
If you compared this video to the last one side by side, you'd notice it immediately—I looked like someone had pressed "reduce by 10%" on my entire body. Even the gown hung looser, as if it were quietly preparing to outlive me.
But! I had upgraded my look.
This time, I wore a bright orange wig, parted down the middle and braided into two aggressively optimistic pigtails.
"Good morning, citizens of the internet," I announced, saluting the camera. "Today is October 29, 2024. Welcome to Hospital Fine Dining."
The camera dipped.
"Behold," I said solemnly, "my lunch."
On the tray sat a meal that looked suspiciously like it had been made with love—and mild panic. Rice shaped a little too carefully. Vegetables cut unevenly. Soup in a thermos that definitely did not belong to the hospital.
As the camera panned, I narrated like a cooking show host with a nonexistent budget.
"This is rice—handcrafted by Rachel, who woke up at six a.m. to wash it three times like it offended her personally. This is chicken that has been bullied into tenderness. And this—this is soup made with the tears of a single woman."
Off-camera, Rachel groaned. "Stop saying things like that."
"And now," I declared, rubbing my hands together, "the mukbang portion of today's program."
I picked up my chopsticks and leaned dramatically toward the lens, chewing with theatrical delight.
"Mmm. Oh wow. This is… criminally good."
I even asked for more rice. Half a bowl more than usual.
Rachel gasped like I'd just announced a miracle. "You're doing amazing! Look at you go!"
I puffed up proudly. "Of course I am. It's because my Rachel cooks like she's trying to negotiate with the universe."
I lifted the plate. "Honestly, I might lick it."
"You absolutely will not," she snapped, grabbing it away.
She began clearing the tray, muttering under her breath, and shoved the phone back into my hands. "Talk about something else."
I nodded obediently and turned back to the camera.
"Let's discuss today's wig," I said brightly, tugging on a braid. "This one's called 'Still Alive, Probably.' I think it suits me. Very youthful. Very 'I might still commit tax fraud.'"
I laughed.
Then Rachel stepped out of the room.
The moment the door clicked shut, my face collapsed.
I barely made it off the bed before my knees hit the floor. I wrapped my arms around the trash bin like it was an old friend and retched until my ribs screamed and my vision blurred.
By the time I dragged myself back into frame, my eyes were swollen, lashes clumped together with tears.
"Don't misunderstand," I said hoarsely, forcing a smile. "The food was incredible. Five stars. Would recommend."
I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve. "It's just… the treatment's getting meaner. Dizziness. Nausea. My stomach has officially declared war on me."
I swallowed. "I couldn't let Rachel see that. She's already cried enough for the both of us. I think if she catches me throwing up again, she'll start apologizing to inanimate objects."
I tilted my head. "Also, I heard people who waste food go to hell."
I stuck my tongue out at the camera. "And I really don't want to meet Satan on an empty stomach."
I crawled back into bed, breathing shallowly, and reached inside my gown. From a hidden pocket, I pulled out a small, worn charm—its edges smooth from years of being touched when I was scared.
I held it up.
"To the idiot who gave this to me," I said softly. "She promised it would keep me safe forever."
I let out a breath that almost became a laugh. "Liar."
I closed my fingers around it. "Hey Ivan, if you're watching this—don't wear yours anymore. It clearly doesn't work."
I paused. "Not that you still have it. You probably threw it away when you cleaned out your drawers. Or your life."
I stared at the charm for a long second, then looked back at the camera.
"Tomorrow," I said firmly, nodding to myself, "I'm really going to stop liking you."
I raised one finger. "For real this time."
"It's been five months since we broke up," I continued. "They say it takes twenty-one days to form a habit."
I frowned, counting on my fingers. "I've gone through five sets of twenty-one."
I looked confused. Then a little sad.
"So why," I asked quietly, "does it still feel wrong when I wake up and you're not here?"
I forced a grin. "Anyway! That's today's update."
I gave a small wave. "See you tomorrow—if my stomach allows it."
The video ended mid-smile.