MELODY
....

I'm in the hospital with a muscle cramp around the leg, and I'm crying mercilessly. Like shamelessly screaming.

What happened, you ask?

Well, let's rewind to this morning when Steph came in looking all hot blonde vibes, her hair still damp from the shower obviously, wearing those tight athletic leggings that make her butt look amazing.

She was ready to do the usual: laze around the house, work out a little, maybe spend an hour losing at some video game (she’s finally getting better at that), or just scroll aimlessly on her phone with me bugging her all day long.

But I had other plans. It was a nice day to be outside. And honestly, when the sun is out, I feel like it’s calling me. Staying indoors just feels wrong.

So, I coerced her into biking us to the park for yoga. I have no idea when I started liking it. Or maybe that was my lame attempt to see her blue eyes shining in the sun.

"Come on," I’d said, practically dragging her toward the door. "The weather’s perfect. You can’t just sit around all day. Besides, yoga’s good for our souls right."

"My soul’s fine," she muttered, but she grabbed her sneakers anyway.

Steph, bless her athletic energy, pedaled the whole way there while I clung to the back of the bike, screaming half the time. I could feel her laughing as she wobbled on purpose, trying to scare me.

"I swear to God, if I fall off—"

"You won’t fall," she yelled over her shoulder, grinning.

When we got to the park, it was crowded, but we found a good spot under some shade. Yoga’s actually been growing on me. I think.

I used to think it was just slow stretching, but now I get why people do it. It’s calming. It makes you feel like you’re in control of your body.

Or, at least, it does until you try something stupid.

I can still hear Steph’s voice echoing in my head: "Don’t do that pose, Mel. Your knee’s still not strong enough."

But did I listen? No. Of course not.

I was showing off. Trying to prove I could hold the balance pose longer than anyone else in the class. My leg extended behind me, arms reaching forward, and for a split second, I felt invincible.

Steph was rolling her eyes, muttering, "You’re going to hurt yourself."

And then I fell.

Not just a little wobble or a stumble. I fell. My knee twisted under me, and this sharp, searing pain shot through my leg like fire. It felt like that day in the court all over again.

So now, here I am. Crying in a hospital bed, the pain in my knee makes me want to scream all over again.

"Oh my God, do something!" Steph’s voice cuts through my haze of misery. She’s yelling at the nurse who came in to check on me.

"Ma’am, we are doing everything we can," the nurse says, her tone clipped. "If you’re not going to calm down, I’m going to have to ask you to leave."

That shuts Steph up. For about five seconds.

She sits back down in the chair by my bed, glaring at the nurse as if she’s personally offended by the situation.

When the nurse finally injects something into my IV, Steph leans over me and whispers, "This better work."

"This should start working soon to reduce the pain," the nurse says, her voice softer now, "but it might also make her a little sleepy."

Good. I want to sleep. Anything to escape this ridiculous pain.

I don’t know how long passes after the nurse leaves. Minutes? Hours? It’s hard to tell. I drift in and out of this foggy half-sleep, and every time I open my eyes, Steph is still there.

She’s on the phone now, probably with Jeremiah. Her voice is low, but I can still hear the worry in it. And even when she’s talking, her hand keeps brushing against my forehead, tucking my hair back or checking for some imaginary fever.

Part of me wants to say something sarcastic—like, What are you, my nurse now?—but I’m too tired to open my mouth.

Eventually, the pain starts to dull. The medicine kicks in, and the screaming inside my brain fades to a low throb. My eyes are heavy, but I fight to keep them open, just so I can watch Steph for a little longer.

She’s pacing now, running her hand through her blonde hair, her brows furrowed in that way that makes her look like she’s planning something elaborate.

I blink slowly. "You’re going to wear a hole in the floor," I mumble, my voice is scratchy.

Steph whirls around, her face lighting up when she sees me awake. "Finally. How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," I say. My lips curl into a weak smile. "But less dramatic."

She snorts. "Yeah, well, you’ve got yourself to thank for that. Show-off."

"Don’t start," I warn, though my voice is too soft to sound threatening.

She moves closer to the bed, pulling the chair up again and sitting down. "You scared the crap out of me, you know that?"

"I know," I say quietly. And I do. The memory of her panicked face when I fell is still fresh.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Steph just stares at me, her expression a mix of relief and lingering concern.

"You’re stuck with me, you know," I say, breaking the silence. "Bad knee and all."

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep you out of trouble."

"Good luck with that."

Steph reaches out and squeezes my hand, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough to make my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the pain.

I close my eyes, letting the warmth of her hand and the dull hum of the hospital room wash over me.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll feel better. Maybe tomorrow, we’ll laugh about this whole mess.

But now, I’m just glad she’s here with me.