But none of it felt real without Mom knowing. Without her seeing that I'd made it, that her sacrifices paid off, that she never had to work another ICU shift if she didn't want to.
My pace increased without conscious decision—feet moving faster, eating up distance, driven by something I couldn't name. My breathing quickened. Sweat formed at my temples despite the cool air, at the small of my back under my jacket, making my shirt stick slightly. My heart rate climbed from resting to something approaching exercise.
"Your heart rate is elevated," ARIA observed, voice clinical. "Respiratory rate increasing. You're essentially jogging now. Heart rate at 118 BPM and climbing."
"I want to see her."
"I'm aware. Your biometric data suggests significant emotional attachment combined with what might be classified as separation anxiety, though that term typically applies to—"
"ARIA."
"Yes, Master?"
"Shut up."
"Understood."
