The hospital smelled like honesty.
Not the comforting kind.
The kind that disinfects everything—including hope.
Cielo sat on the stiff chair in the consultation room, swinging her feet slightly like she was waiting for a class to start. Across from her, Dr. Navarro flipped through her chart with the focus of someone trying very hard not to look confused in front of a teenager.
Her mother, Aling Rosa, sat beside her, arms tightly folded like she was personally negotiating with fate.
"So," the doctor began, adjusting his glasses, "you faint when exposed to sunlight."
Cielo nodded. "Yes, Doc."
"And you develop skin reactions?"
"Red patches. Burning. Dramatic exit. Ten out of ten experience. Would not recommend."
Rosa shot her a look. "Cielo, be serious."
"I am serious. I added ratings."
The doctor cleared his throat, trying not to smile.
"Okay," he said slowly. "We're looking at a case of… photosensitivity."
Rosa leaned forward immediately. "Photo-what?"
Cielo whispered, "Not camera filter, Ma."
"Shut up."
—
The doctor continued, now slipping into his "science voice."
"Photosensitivity is when the skin reacts abnormally to UV radiation. It can cause rashes, dizziness, even systemic symptoms."
He glanced at Cielo.
"Some cases are linked to autoimmune diseases like lupus. Others to genetic conditions like porphyria. There are also rare immune reactions like solar urticaria."
Rosa blinked. "Solar… what?"
Cielo raised her hand slightly. "Sounds like a villain name."
Dr. Navarro actually chuckled. "It's a rare condition. The body basically treats sunlight like an enemy and releases histamine. The reaction can cause hives, fainting, even severe discomfort within minutes of exposure."
Rosa slowly turned to Cielo.
"So your body is… allergic to the sun?"
Cielo thought about it.
Then nodded. "Basically, yes. I lost the genetic lottery."
—
Silence.
The doctor flipped a page, then another. Less confidence now.
"But," he added carefully, "to confirm any of these conditions, we need further testing—blood work, phototesting, maybe immunological screening."
Rosa immediately sat straighter. "So there is a test that will tell us exactly what she has?"
The doctor hesitated.
That hesitation again.
The dangerous kind.
"Well…" he said slowly, "sometimes these conditions overlap. And sometimes… we don't find a single clear cause."
Cielo tilted her head. "So basically, I might be allergic to the sun, life, or mystery. Got it."
"Cielo," Rosa warned.
The doctor coughed. "Medical science is still evolving."
Cielo nodded seriously. "So am I a research project?"
—
Rosa was not amused.
"Doctor," she said firmly, "can this be treated?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
That pause had weight.
Finally, the doctor answered honestly.
"There is no absolute cure for most of these conditions," he said. "We usually manage symptoms—sun avoidance, protective clothing, antihistamines in some cases, and strict monitoring."
Rosa's face tightened.
"So she just… avoids sunlight forever?"
The doctor softened his tone. "We manage quality of life. Many patients adapt."
Cielo raised a hand again.
"Doc, quick question."
"Yes?"
"If I accidentally touch sunlight, do I explode or just faint dramatically?"
Rosa slapped her lightly on the arm. "Stop joking!"
"I'm coping," Cielo said.
—
But beneath the humor, something settled in the room.
Heavy.
Final-sounding.
Rosa looked down at her hands.
For the first time, she didn't have a joke, or a complaint, or a solution.
Just silence.
Cielo noticed.
So she leaned closer and said quietly, "Ma, I'm still alive, right?"
Rosa nodded immediately. "Of course."
"Still writing annoying stories?"
"Yes."
"Still eating my food?"
"Yes, and complaining."
"Then we're fine."
Rosa didn't laugh this time.
But her hand slowly reached for Cielo's.
Held it tightly.
—
The doctor closed the file gently.
"I'll refer you to a specialist in dermatology and immunology," he said. "We'll run more tests."
As he spoke, Cielo looked out the small window of the clinic.
Bright sunlight outside.
Violent in its normality.
She squinted slightly, then turned away.
Not fearfully this time.
Just… knowingly.
Like she and the sun had reached an agreement:
We don't understand each other. So we keep our distance.
—
As they left the room, Rosa walked a little closer than usual.
Too close, almost protective enough to block invisible light.
Cielo noticed.
"Mom," she said softly, "you're walking like you're shielding me from lasers."
Rosa didn't look at her. "Don't talk."
"That's not an answer."
"I'm focusing on not losing my child to photons."
Cielo sighed. "That sounds like a very specific parenting skill."
—
Rosa finally glanced at her.
And for once, her voice wasn't joking.
"I don't care what the diagnosis is," she said quietly. "I just need you here."
Cielo didn't reply right away.
Then she smiled a little.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I already told the sun we're in a toxic situationship."
Rosa let out a small breath—half laugh, half surrender.
"Your humor is a coping mechanism," she muttered.
"Your fear is a personality trait," Cielo replied.
—
And for the first time that day…
both of them walked out of the hospital without answers.
But still walking together.