February 14, 2025
I woke up to the sound of machines breathing for me.
It was a steady, mechanical reminder that my body had failed at something as basic as staying alive, and technology had stepped in out of pity.
Three days. Three nights. That's what they told me later. At the time, it felt like I'd only blinked.
The first thing I saw was Rachel.
Her head was resting against the edge of the bed, hair tangled, dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes. She looked smaller somehow, like someone had slowly been carving pieces of her away while I slept.
And something inside me cracked.
I didn't cry quietly. I didn't gasp or whimper like a movie character. I broke.
Completely. Ugly. Loud.
The kind of crying that feels like it's tearing your chest open from the inside.
Before anyone could stop me, my hand shot out and yanked the IV from my arm.
Pain flared but I welcomed it. Blood splattered across the white sheets like proof that I was still here against my will.
"Why did you save me?!" I screamed, my voice raw. "Why am I not dead yet? Just let me die!"
Rachel froze for half a second—just half—and then she lunged for the nurse call button, slamming it like it might explode if she didn't press it hard enough.
I grabbed a pillow and hurled it toward the camera on the bedside table. It hit the wall instead and slid down uselessly.
That wasn't enough.
I clawed at my own face, nails scraping skin, desperate to feel something that wasn't this suffocating despair. Warm blood streaked down my cheeks.
Jessica rushed toward me, hands outstretched. "Maya, stop—please—"
"DON'T TOUCH ME!"
The closer she got, the worse it became. My heart raced like a trapped animal. My stomach twisted violently, and before I could even turn my head, I vomited all over myself.
The smell. The humiliation. The sheer helplessness of it.
Rachel broke.
She dropped to her knees beside the bed, crying openly now. "Maya… haven't you always been strong?"
Her voice shook. "You said you'd keep filming your recovery videos… all the way until the day you were truly healed."
"GET OUT!"
The scream ripped out of me, tearing my throat raw.
She didn't move. She couldn't.
Doctors rushed in. Hands held me down like you'd restrain someone standing too close to a cliff. A needle pierced my arm. Cold spread through my veins, dragging me down into something heavy and numb.
The last thing I heard before the fog swallowed me was a doctor's calm, tired voice:
"Please try to understand. The pain she endures every day is far beyond what we can imagine. Mental breakdowns like this… they're inevitable."
When I came back to myself, the world felt quieter. Softer. Like everything had been wrapped in cotton.
My eyes burned. My head throbbed.
"Rachel…" I whispered.
"Maya."
She was there instantly, like she'd been standing guard the whole time.
She didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me, ignoring the stains on my clothes, the mess, the smell, the broken version of me clinging to her.
My hands shook as I hugged her back. I pressed my chin into her shoulder like a child afraid of being left behind, tears soaking into her sweater.
"I'm sorry," I choked. "I shouldn't have yelled at you…"
My voice fractured. "I don't want to be a burden. I don't want to keep dragging you down. When I woke up, I thought… I thought I was still normal."
I laughed weakly, the sound hollow. "But my body wouldn't let me forget. Every second hurts. Every breath hurts. I'm sick…"
The word felt poisonous on my tongue.
"I'm sick," I sobbed. "What am I supposed to do? I'm sick, Rachel…"
The sentence fell apart into incoherent cries, grief pouring out of me like something long dammed had finally burst.
Rachel held me tighter, her hands warm and steady against my back.
"It's okay," she whispered, over and over, like a prayer. "It's okay, Maya. You can get through this. I know you can."
She pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against mine.
"After all," she said softly, her voice trembling, "you are our sunshine."
And for the first time that day, I let myself believe that maybe—even broken, even afraid—I was still allowed to exist.