"Where are we going?"

Mom presses her lips together, holding back before she responds, "You'll see."

"Is it a surprise? Is it fun?" I stare out of the car's window. "It isn't, is it? You don't seem very excited. Are visiting someone?"

"Sort of," she sighs out. "Just... just relax."

"You're scaring me."

"Minho."

A groan escapes my lips. "I'll shut my mouth."

About ten minutes later, we drive onto a parking lot. A parking lot right next to the hospital.

"Ehm," I manage. "What exactly what are we doing here?"

"What do you think?"

My stomach flips. "Eh, you... something's wrong with your health—"

"Minho," she repeats, her tone even sterner than last time. "You know why we're here."

"Well, not really, because I don't know how you know about the fact we should be here."

Her eyes squint. "What?"

"How do you know about those weird sessions?" I eye the ground, murmuring. "How do you know we're supposed to be here?"

"Dariel mentioned your strange behavior and Lucy was worried about you."

I almost jump in the air. "Luciana was worried about me?"

Mom nods. The hospital looms ahead. My legs feel heavy as I walk towards it. The cold air bites at my skin. I really don't want to be here.

The automatic doors slide open with a soft hiss. A strange scent fills my nose. The hospital is busy—people rush past, voices echo, machines beep somewhere in the distance. I follow Mom inside, my steps slow.

At the front desk, Mom gives my name, and the receptionist types something into the computer before glancing at me with a polite smile. "You can take a seat, Minho. They'll call you soon."

I don't sit. I can't. My legs are restless, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sweater. My gaze flickers around the waiting room, landing on a little girl clinging to her father's arm, a teenage boy scrolling through his phone, an old woman flipping through a magazine. All of them seem fine.

I hate this. I hate not knowing what's going to happen, even though I have a pretty good idea. I hate the thought of needles in my skin. I hate that Mom is keeping everything bottled up, that she won't just say what she's thinking.

The door to the exam rooms opens, and a nurse steps out, clipboard in hand. "Minho Fiore?"

My heart pounds.

Mom stands, nudging me forward. "Come on."

I force my legs to move, even though every instinct screams at me to run the other way.

The nurse leads us down a corridor, past closed doors and hushed voices, until we step into a small examination room.

"Go ahead and sit on the table," she says, her voice warm.

I hesitate before climbing onto the exam table, the crinkling paper beneath me loud in the quiet room. Mom takes a seat in the chair beside me, her arms crossed over her chest.

"The doctor will be in soon," the nurse says. "But first, we need to do some bloodwork."

My stomach clenches. I don't mind needles that much, but taking blood from me is a whole different story. The light-headed afterwards is awful.

The nurse pulls on a pair of gloves and preps the supplies while I sit there, trying not to look.

"You okay?" Mom asks softly.

I nod, even though I'm not. My fingers curl into my sweater, gripping the fabric tight as the nurse wraps the rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. My skin prickles.

"Make a fist for me," she says.

My knuckles turn white. She swabs the inside of my elbow, and I force my eyes away, focusing on a poster on the wall—something about washing your hands, bright blue letters in a cartoonish style.

Then comes the sharp prick of the needle.

I grit my teeth, breathing through my nose.

Mom's hand lands on my knee, a small gesture, but it helps. A little.

A few seconds pass—too long, not long enough—and then the needle is out. The nurse presses a piece of gauze to my arm. "All done. You did great."

She tapes the gauze down and moves to clean up while I flex my fingers, trying to shake off the weird feeling in my veins.

"Doctor Garcia will be in soon," the nurse says before stepping out.

The door clicks shut. I let out a slow breath, staring at the floor. My arm feels weird—tingly, a little sore.

A man steps inside a few minutes later, flipping through the file as he sits down, then looks at me. "So, Minho, your mom told us you've been having headaches, dizziness, some unusual moments where you zone out, and have been tired lately. Is that right?"

I glance at Mom. She gives me a small nod, urging me to answer. I swallow. "Yeah, I guess."

Dr. Garcia hums, setting the file down. "We're going to run a few more tests today, just to get a better picture of what's going on. We already took some blood, but there's one more thing we need to do—a lumbar puncture."

I frown. "A what?"

"A spinal tap. It's a test where we take a small sample of fluid from your lower back, near the spine. It helps us check for infections or anything affecting your brain."

My stomach drops. "You're gonna stick a needle in my back?"

Dr. Garcia nods. "It's quick, but I won't lie—it's not the most comfortable procedure. You'll need to lie on your side and stay very still."

"I don't... do I really need it?"

"We need to know what's going on with you."

I don't answer. My throat is too tight.

The doctor gives me an understanding look. "I know it sounds scary, but I promise we'll take care of you. We'll numb the area first, and it'll be over before you know it." He stands back up. "I will be back in a minute."

The second the door closes, I turn to Mom. "I don't want that."

"It's okay, Minho." She squeezes my hand, her thumb running along the back of it. "You can do this."

"I don't want to," I repeat, my voice hollow, filled with fear that I wish to push away.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The exam table is cold beneath me as I lie curled on my side, my knees pulled up to my chest. The doctor cleans my lower back with something cold.

"Okay, you're going to feel a pinch," Dr. Garcia warns.

I barely register the numbing shot before a deeper, sharper pressure follows. I grip the pillow under my head. My breaths heave.

"Almost done," the doctor says.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers digging into the fabric. A sharp, electric pain shoots through my spine, making my legs twitch involuntarily.

"Stay still," the nurse reminds me.

I try. I really do. Then, just when I think I can't take it anymore— "All done," Dr. Garcia says.

I let out a shaky breath as he presses gauze to my back. My muscles feel tight.

"Good job, Minho," Mom murmurs, brushing a hand over my hair. Her nails scrape my scalp softly, but I'm not able to enjoy the feeling. Everything feels cold and uncomfortable.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The results come back later that day. I'm sitting in a different room, sipping water, my back aching.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mom asks quietly.

"Tell you what?"

"About everything. Headaches, exhaustion, zoning out and not being able to snap out of it— why?"

I shrug, swallowing. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

Before she can respond, Dr. Garcia walks in, holding a clipboard, his expression unreadable.

Mom straightens immediately.

He takes a seat across from us. "Minho, we found something in your spinal fluid," he begins.

I brace myself. "What is it?"

"You have a condition called meningitis. It's an infection that affects the membranes around your brain and spinal cord. It explains your symptoms; the headaches, dizziness, the confusion."

"Meningitis," I repeat in a mumble. "Can it be cured?"

"Yes. It has almost faded—lasts for a few weeks only."

Those words draw a relieved breath for me. "Okay."

"But there's more."

Oh.

Mom tenses. She grabs my hand below the table. My teeth clench together. 

He hesitates. "It looks like the infection has led to another condition."

A strange, cold feeling washes over me. "What... what condition?"

"Epilepsy."

I stare at him.

My heartbeat thuds in my ears.

Epilepsy.

The world tilts slightly, but I don't know if it's from the news or the lingering dizziness.

"Are you sure?" Mom asks urgently.

"Yes," Dr. Garcia says. "His symptoms align with seizure activity. The moments of zoning out, the headaches—they fit. We'll need to do further testing, but this is something we need to monitor carefully."

Epilepsy.

The word loops in my head, over and over.

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to feel.

All I know is that nothing will ever be the same again.

"What does this mean for him?"

"It means we need to monitor him closely. He'll likely need medication to control the seizures. There are precautions we'll have to take—things he may need to avoid." He pauses, glancing at me. "It also means he shouldn't keep this to himself. He shouldn't be left alone. Not in the beginning of this, at least."

My eyes wide in horror. Can't be left alone? Medication? Things I need to avoid?

Mom notices. "Minho..."

I shake my head. "No. I—" My voice breaks. I swallow the lump in my throat. "It's fine. We'll figure it out."

Dr. Garcia's voice cuts through the storm in my head. "Minho, I know this is a lot to take in."

No kidding.

"I promise, we'll help you through this."

I barely hear him.

Epilepsy.

Seizures.

I bite my lip.

Epilepsy.