Monday morning dawned like a curse.
I hadn't seen my bed in three days.
I didn't want to see it.
The hospital chair groaned beneath me as I shifted, my legs cramping from sleeping half-sitting, half-folded on worn plastic. Dad was still asleep, or something close to it. Tubes tangled like ivy across his chest, the steady beeping of machines the only proof that his heart still beat.
Three days.
Three days of bad coffee, no sleep, hospital disinfectant clinging to my hair, and fear gnawing at my insides.
Nothing had changed.
If anything, he looked worse. His skin was more sunken, lips cracked, voice barely audible when he managed to speak. On Saturday, the doctor had quietly taken me aside and said the words I'd been trying not to hear.
"Any day now, Aria."
Not weeks. Not months.
Days.
I'd nodded then. Still nodding, apparently, because I didn't know what else to do. Every hour felt like I was holding my breath, waiting for someone to walk through the door and tell me it was over. That I hadn't made it in time. That I hadn't been enough.
My phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket. I glanced at the screen.
Unknown Number.
For a second, I thought it might be a job call.
Instead:
"Hey, Aria. This is Chad,the manager from The Grind. Just wondering if you're planning to come back to work or…?"
No "hope you're okay."
No "take your time."
Just pressure.
I texted back quickly:
"Still at the hospital. My dad's critical. I'm sorry I haven't called. I just..."
Before I could finish typing, the typing bubble disappeared. Three dots. Gone.
Then:
"Look, we're short-staffed. I get it, but we need people who can show up. You've had three days. Just let me know if you're quitting or what."
Quitting? As if I had the luxury to quit anything.
I blinked back hot tears and tried to reply again, but my fingers refused to move.
What would I even say?
That I was trying?
That I hadn't slept or eaten properly?
That my insulin was running out?
That I'd already applied to five other jobs and hadn't heard back from any?
The truth was too messy, too desperate.
Instead, I shut off my phone.
I leaned forward and held my dad's hand, letting my thumb brush over his paper-thin skin.
"You used to tell me that good things come to those who hustle," I whispered, voice hoarse. "Well, I've been hustling, Dad. And still, the world's handing me nothing but broken pieces."
His fingers twitched, just barely. But his eyes didn't open.
That tiny movement was enough to shatter me all over again.
By the time I finally left the hospital around noon to grab a change of clothes and shower, the sun was blinding and unforgiving. I barely noticed the walk home. My legs were on autopilot, my brain stuck in a loop of numbers.
Rent.
Medication.
Unpaid electricity.
My next insulin refill.
Dad's oxygen supplements.
Food.
I could hear the numbers ticking like a time bomb inside my skull.
When I reached our apartment door, I paused.
Something was different.
A sheet of paper flapped lazily in the breeze, taped directly above the handle.
I peeled it off slowly.
And there it was:
EVICTION NOTICE.
"Due to non-payment of rent, you are hereby notified…"
The words blurred. I didn't need to read the rest.
I gripped the paper so tightly it tore.
I backed away, leaning against the wall of the hallway as the world tilted sideways. Cold crept into my fingers despite the heat. My breathing grew shallow. My blood sugar must've been crashing, but I didn't care.
Evicted.
As if we hadn't already lost enough.
I slid down the wall and hugged my knees to my chest, rocking slightly.
No one came out to check. No one asked if I was okay.
The world didn't stop...not for heartbreak, not for hospital bills, not for a girl who'd already lost too much.
I showered like a ghost. Clothes clung to my skin like lead. I changed into jeans and a faded sweatshirt and found a granola barstale but edible in the kitchen drawer.
Then, I walked.
I walked until my legs burned. Until the apartment buildings thinned out and the city faded behind trees and gravel paths. The cemetery wasn't far. We'd buried them close Mom and Olivia. Right under the willow tree Dad used to sit under during every visit.
I found their gravestones like they'd never left me.
Marion Davis.
Olivia Davis.
Mother. Sister. Gone in one blink of an eye. Ten years and the pain still roared like it had happened yesterday.
I dropped to my knees in front of them, the grass cool and soft.
"I'm tired," I whispered. "I'm so tired."
I ran my fingers over their names. "I thought if I tried hard enough, if I gave up school, if I worked, if I stayed strong, maybe… maybe I could keep what's left of this family together. But I can't."
My voice cracked. "Mom… Olivia… he's dying. Dad's dying. And I don't know how to stop it. I don't know how to afford it."
Tears spilled freely now, soaking the neckline of my sweatshirt. "And I'm getting worse too. My sugar keeps crashing. I feel it. My body's fighting, and I'm out of meds. Out of time."
I pressed my forehead to the stone.
"I don't have anyone left. I thought I was strong. I thought I could handle it. But I'm breaking. I'm really breaking this time. And no one sees it."
The wind picked up gently, brushing my hair from my face like a mother would.
"I need help," I whispered to no one. "I need a miracle."
And then I just sat there. Quiet. Letting the pain bleed out of me, unfiltered.
Because what else could I do?
There was no hero coming. No check in the mail. No long-lost uncle with money or connections.
Just me.
Just this moment.
And the echo of a life that used to be full.
Dying and joining the rest of my family doesn't sound so bad right now.