(Elara POV)
Hospitals smell the same everywhere.
Too clean. Too quiet. Like they're trying to hide how much pain lives inside their walls.
I leave work early that day.
Not because I want to — because my phone won't stop buzzing.
Mom
Mom
Mom
My hands shake as I press answer.
"Elara," my mother says. Her voice is thin. "The doctor wants to run a few more tests."
I already know what that means.
"I'm on my way," I say, grabbing my bag. "Don't worry."
I don't wait for permission. I don't tell anyone where I'm going.
I just leave.
The subway feels slower than usual. Every stop takes too long. Every delay feels personal. I stare at the digital board like I can force it to move faster if I try hard enough.
By the time I reach the hospital, my chest hurts.
Mom is sitting up in bed when I get there. She smiles when she sees me, and that somehow makes everything worse.
"You didn't have to rush," she says gently.
"I wanted to," I reply, pulling a chair closer.
The doctor comes in ten minutes later.
He uses careful words. Professional words. Words that sound hopeful if you don't know how to listen.
I know how to listen.
"Progression."
"Management."
"Next steps."
I nod like I understand everything.
When he leaves, I grip the edge of the chair until my fingers ache.
"It's fine," I say quickly when Mom looks at me. "We'll manage."
She reaches for my hand. Her grip is weak. "You shouldn't carry this alone."
I smile. "I'm not."
It's a lie.
When I leave the hospital later, the sky is already dark. I sit on a bench outside for a moment, my head in my hands.
Just breathe.
Just breathe.
My phone vibrates.
Mr. Hale
My stomach drops.
I stare at the screen for three seconds before answering.
"Yes, sir?"
"You left," he says.
Not accusing. Just factual.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I had a personal matter."
There's a pause.
"Are you coming back?" he asks.
I look at the hospital doors behind me. At the people going in and out. At the weight sitting on my chest.
"I—" My voice catches.
I stop.
"I can be there tomorrow early," I say instead.
Another pause.
"Take the rest of the day," he says. "I'll handle it."
"Yes, sir," I whisper.
The call ends.
I sit there for a long moment afterward, phone still in my hand.
He didn't ask why.
He didn't push.
He didn't make it complicated.
And somehow, that makes my throat burn even more.
I stand up and wipe my face before anyone can see.
I don't cry at work.
I don't cry in front of people like him.
I wait until I'm home.
I sit on my bed, shoes still on, and let myself break quietly.
Just for a minute.
Then I pull myself back together.
Because tomorrow, I'll go back to Hale Industries.
I'll keep my head down.
I'll do my job.
And no one will know how close I came to falling apart on a hospital bench outside a building that never sleeps.