MELODY
....

The drive into the city is like sitting in a soundproof bubble. Jeremiah keeps his eyes on the road, tapping the steering wheel every now and then.

He’s been mumbling plans under his breath since we left, like he’s rehearsing for a board meeting.

Maybe he is.

“Melody,” he says suddenly but still won't look at me. “you can hate me all you want but we’re doing this and  it's what’s best for you.”

I don’t answer. What’s the point? He’s already decided what’s “best” for me, and apparently, my opinion wasn’t on the guest list for that conversation.

So, I turn my head and watch the highway blur past, one endless stretch of gray leading to who-knows-where.

I've only visited Jeremiah once since he started working out there, I didn't like it at the time and I'm not sure anything will change now.

The streets were too crowded, the air felt too thick, and everything was just... off. The constant traffic, the endless sirens, the fact that nobody even looked up when you walked past them—it was suffocating. It didn’t feel like home.

Back in Hilton, I know every corner of every street. I can get lost in the quiet, and it would be okay. I can walk down to the diner and get the best fries in the world, served by Ketty, who always asks how school is going.

That’s the kind of town Hilton is—small, cozy, personal.

People care. It feels like home.

But in the city, I will feel like I’m just another cog in a machine I don’t understand. I’m another nameless person in a sea of faces, and I hate it.

By the time we reach the city, it’s close to lunch. The skyline looms ahead like a Pinterest board for overachievers—shiny, tall, and way too put-together.

My stomach growls as we park, betraying me at the worst time.

“There’s a burger place nearby,” Jeremiah says, glancing at me. “You should eat something before your appointment.”

I want to say no. I want to say I’ll never eat again just to spite him but hunger wins.

I grunt something resembling agreement, and we head to a small diner with retro vibes and too many neon signs.

The smell of sizzling grease and fresh bread hits me the second we walk in. I keep my face neutral as we grab a booth in the corner, but my stomach’s screaming.

“You can pick whatever you want,” Jeremiah says, sliding a menu across the table.

“Gee, thanks,” I mutter sarcastically as I scan the options.

I end up ordering a bacon cheeseburger with curly fries, because if I’m going to be miserable, I might as well be full.

The food comes out fast, and even though I’m trying to stay mad, the first bite is heavenly.

Jeremiah eats his salad in silence, occasionally checking his phone. I wonder if he’s texting Mom updates or if he’s just scrolling through boring spreadsheets. Probably both.

“Thanks for lunch,” I mumble when we’re done, and he looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.

“Of course,” he says, his voice getting soft.

I hate that I almost feel bad for being mad at him. Almost.

The hospital is a towering glass building that screams “money.”

Jeremiah parks in a reserved spot (of course he has one) and helps me out of the car. A nurse meets us at the entrance with a wheelchair, and I swallow the lump in my throat as I sit down.

This makes me feel like I'm too sick.

The hallways are quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every sound—footsteps, doors opening and closing, the hum of the air conditioning.

When we finally meet Dr. Richardson, I almost roll my eyes. He’s one of those doctors who smiles too much, like being pleasant will magically fix every illness.

“Melody, it’s great to meet you,” he says, shaking my hand like this is a networking event. “I’ve gone over your case, and I think we have a solid plan.”

Solid plan. Right.

He launches into an explanation of the procedure, using words like “minimally invasive” and “quick recovery time.” I nod along, but my brain’s stuck on one thing: tomorrow.

“We want to get this done as soon as possible,” Dr. Richardson says calmly. “The earlier we start, the sooner you’ll be back on your feet.”

Tomorrow. The word feels heavy.

Jeremiah asks a million questions, and Dr. Richardson answers each one like he’s hosting a TED Talk. I just sit there, gripping the armrests of the wheelchair and trying not to freak out.

***

My hospital room is like a mini hotel suite. There’s a flat-screen TV, a pull-out couch, and a view of the city that would probably be impressive if I cared.

Jeremiah hovers for a while, unpacking my stuff and setting up my charger like I’m incapable of doing it myself.

“I’ll be out a while,” he says finally, his voice careful. “Try to get some rest and if you need anything, call me.”

I don't respond.

He leaves a bag of takeout on the counter before heading out, and for a second, I feel a weird pang of gratitude. But then I remember why I’m here, and the anger comes rushing back.

I pick at the takeout—more fries, because apparently Jeremiah thinks I have a potato addiction—and flip through channels on the TV.

Nothing holds my attention for long, though. My mind keeps circling back to tomorrow, to the surgery, to the idea of someone cutting into my leg and poking around like it’s no big deal.

I’m scared. I’m nervous.

But I don’t say it out loud, because admitting it feels like losing. And I don't lose.

The night drags on, each hour stretching into what feels like infinity. I try texting Jess, but she’s busy (with Marco obviously: big surprise!), so I settle for scrolling through TikTok. It’s a weak distraction at best.

When I finally climb into bed, the city lights outside make it hard to sleep or maybe it’s the knot in my stomach that won’t go away.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper to myself, like saying it out loud will make it less terrifying. “Just get through tomorrow.”

And after that? Recovery. Training. Getting back on the court where I belong.

I close my eyes and try to imagine the feel of the ball in my hands, the rush of adrenaline during a game. It’s enough to calm me down for now.

Tomorrow will come whether I’m ready or not.

All I can do is face it head-on.