I sit in the waiting room, bouncing my knee, scrolling through my phone even though I'm not reading anything. The screen blurs, my brain too restless to focus. It's been a week since the doctor said it—epilepsy—and it still doesn't feel real.

I glance at my mom sitting beside me. She's looking at her phone as well, her brows drawn together. She's been tense ever since we got here, but she hasn't said much. I know she's worried.

A door opens, and a nurse steps out. "Minho?"

I shove my phone into my pocket and stand, my legs a little stiff. My mom stands, too.

Inside the exam room, the walls are the usual dull shade of beige. I hop onto the exam table while my mom takes the chair beside it.

"The doctor will be in soon," the nurse says before leaving.

Silence settles between me and my mom. She exhales and rubs her temples. "How have you been feeling?"

I shrug. "Fine."

"Minho."

I sigh. "Really, Mom. I feel normal."

She doesn't look convinced, but before she can press further, there's a knock on the door. A second later, Mr. Garcia.

"Minho," he greets with a nod, then smiles at my mom. "Hi."

She nods back. "Doctor."

The doctor sits on his stool and flips through my file. "So, it's been a week since your diagnosis. How are you feeling?"

"Fine," I say again.

He raises a brow. "Any seizures?"

"No."

"Any dizziness?"

"No. Just a bit tired now and then."

The doctor studies me for a moment, then nods. "Alright. That's good to hear. We'll continue monitoring, but today, I want to go over your treatment plan. Epilepsy is manageable. Medication will help control your seizures, but it's important to take it consistently. We'll start you on a low dose and adjust as needed."

I nod, barely breathing as he lists the medications, the possible side effects, the precautions. It's a lot.

"Lifestyle adjustments are also important," he continues. "Sleep is crucial. Lack of rest can trigger seizures, so you need to maintain a regular sleep schedule."

I nod again.

"No alcohol," he adds.

I nod.

The doctor smiles slightly but stays serious. "Physical activity is good, but be careful. If you feel lightheaded or disoriented, stop immediately. No extreme sports, no climbing without supervision. And, of course, you cannot drive until we see how the medication affects you."

That one hits me harder than I expect. I swallow hard. "How long?"

"Six months seizure-free, at least. Then we'll reassess."

I stare at him, but he doesn't budge. Six months. Half a year. I've barely had my license for a few weeks, and now it's useless.

I grip the edge of the table harder, my jaw tightening.

"Minho," my mom says gently, like she knows exactly what I'm thinking. I exhale through my nose and look away.

The doctor finishes going over everything—emergency protocols, warning signs, when to call for help. My mom listens carefully, asking questions, while I sit there, absorbing it all in silence.

Finally, the doctor sets down his clipboard. "Do you have any questions?"

I shake my head.

"Alright. We're going to run some more tests today. I know it's frustrating, but it'll help us figure out if your medication needs adjusting. Better early than late."

Slowly, I nod. They already have my blood and they also got that spine thing—

"We'll start with another blood test, and after that, we need to do another lumbar puncture."

I freeze.

Mom straightens beside me. "Again?

"Yes. We need to monitor his spinal fluid for any signs of inflammation. It's a precaution, but an important one."

The last time they did that, it was awful. The pressure in my spine, the pain, the way I couldn't move without feeling like my entire body was being crushed.

I shake my head. "I—I don't need that."

"I know it's not pleasant, but it's necessary. I can assure you that this will be the last one for at least a few months."

Mom places a hand on my arm. "Minho—"

"No," I snap, jerking away. "I don't want to do that again."

"I understand your fear," Mr. Garcia says. "But I promise, we'll make it as quick and comfortable as possible."

I don't believe her.

But it doesn't matter. Because ten minutes later, I'm sitting in another damn chair, arm stretched out while a nurse tightens a rubber band around my bicep.

The blood test is nothing. A pinch, some pressure, and it's over.

The nurse hands me a hospital gown. "You'll need to change before we start."

I take it numbly.

Mom gives me a reassuring look. "I'll be right here."

I don't answer. I go into the changing area, take off my hoodie and t-shirt, and put on the thin gown. My hands shake the entire time.

For a moment, I stop. My hand freezes right before I open the door. I got this, I tell myself. It's just a needle. Going three fucking inches into my spine—

It's fine. I take a deep breath. Alby wouldn't be freaking out like this. He'd be cool with it. Newt, too. Even Fry wouldn't almost shed a tear at the thought of this.

Thomas—actually, Thomas is my biggest reassurance for once: I'm definitely less dramatic than him.

When I come back out, there's a hospital bed waiting. I don't move toward it. I swallow hard. My legs feel locked.

But I force myself forward, barely resisting the urge to run in the opposite direction. I lie down on my side, facing the wall. The bed is too firm, the pillow too flat. My breathing is uneven, and I clench my fists to hide the shaking.

Mom sits nearby, rubbing my arm. "It'll be okay."

"Okay, Minho," Dr. Garcia says. "You'll feel a small sting from the anesthetic first," he repeats, just like last time.

The first needle goes in. A quick burn, but nothing compared to what's coming.

Then, a deeper pressure.

A horrible, sinking feeling spreads through my back. My breath catches.

The pain starts slow—like something is burrowing into my spine. My body tenses immediately, my fingers clenching into the sheets.

"Try to stay still," the nurse says softly.

Easy for her to say.

The pressure builds. It's too much. It feels like my lower back is being crushed.

I grip the sheets tighter, a strangled noise escaping my throat.

"Almost there."

A sharp, white-hot pain flares up my spine, slamming into the base of my skull. My vision blurs.

I gasp, body seizing up. My legs twitch involuntarily, a deep, electric ache shooting down to my toes. It feels wrong. My whole body is screaming.

I can't even breathe.

A violent, searing cramp locks up my back. A full-body spasm, pain ripping through every nerve.

Something is wrong.

I gasp out, "Stop—"

But I don't even know if I say it out loud. I hear voices, distant and muffled. My vision tunnels. My heart is racing. My hands won't stop shaking.

The pressure in my head is unbearable. I almost don't register the moment my stomach lurches. A wave of nausea slams into me, hard and fast.

And then I'm gagging. The nurse reacts quickly, grabbing a bin just in time as I vomit. My body shudders violently, pain still radiating through me as I cough and spit into the container.

Mom's hand is on my upper back, rubbing in slow circles. "Breathe, baby. Just breathe."

I can't. The pain doesn't stop. It pulses in my skull, my spine, my limbs. My whole body is trembling.

Brutal dizziness crashes over me.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is the headache. A deep, splitting pain behind my eyes.

The room is too bright. I groan, turning my face into the pillow.

A hand brushes through my hair. "Hey, sweetheart."

Mom.

I crack my eyes open. She looks worried.

I shift slightly—

Pain explodes down my back.

I suck in a sharp breath, my entire body motionless.

"Easy," Mom murmurs. "You passed out."

I close my eyes again. I fear that if I talk, I will throw up again. My stomach is like a big tornado, my back feels like it's broken, my eyes feel heavier than ever.

"You had a bad reaction." Mom's voice is gentle. "The pressure from the lumbar puncture—it was too much. Your body couldn't handle it."

I press my forehead into the pillow, trying to will away the nausea still twisting in my stomach.

Mom smooths my hair down. "We're going home soon, okay?"

My hands curl into fists. I grit my teeth. "You... you only gave me my driver's license back a few weeks ago, and- and now, I can't even use it!"

Mom tenses. "Minho—"

I open my mouth to continue, but close it nearly as fast. This is wrong. Mom didn't do anything. It's not her fault. She's always been there for me, and she's the sweetest person in the whole world. The one thing that I don't like is the fact she didn't give me my license, but that's it. I shouldn't get angry at her.

"Sorry," I whisper, sinking down into the mattress. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Mom kisses my forehead, then continues squeezing my hand. A tear rolls down her cheek, forcing me to hold back my own tears. When her lip starts to tremble, it only becomes worse.

The room feels suffocating, too heavy with everything I can't seem to say. I try to breathe, but each breath comes in short bursts. My chest aches, not just from the pain in my back but from something deeper, something I can't put into words. I wish I could just will the ache away, make everything stop for a moment. Just one moment where I don't feel like I'm falling apart.

I hear the soft rustle of the hospital sheets as my mom shifts beside me. Her hand never leaves mine, though I can feel the shake in her touch.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again, not even sure what I'm apologizing for.

"Minho," she murmurs, "there's nothing to apologize for."

I shift slightly, but the movement sends a jolt of pain through my body, and I freeze. Every muscle in my back is locked up, every nerve screaming.

"Mom..." I whisper.

Her hand is instantly on my cheek, cool and gentle, smoothing away the strands of hair sticking to my forehead. "Shh, it's okay. I'm here with you."

I nod weakly, but it doesn't feel like enough. I wish I could tell her how scared I am, how much I'm hurting inside. But each time I open my mouth, the words catch in my throat. I feel like I'm not allowed to say it.

I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sound of my mom's voice, on the way her hand feels against my skin, on the way her presence surrounds me. But it's hard to keep my focus when my body feels like it's falling apart.

"You know, Alby would tell you to stop thinking about it so much," I mumble to myself. "He'd probably laugh at you for getting worked up over a stupid needle."

Mom doesn't respond at first, but I hear her breath catch. I can feel the sadness in the way her fingers linger on my hand. "You're not weak, Minho. Just because you feel scared, just because it hurts, doesn't mean you're weak. And Alby would never say that. Newt, Thomas, Fry— they're all here for you. Do you need me to call them?"

I shake my head.

What if I can't get better? What if this is just the way things are now? Forever?

The fear hits me like a wave, drowning out everything else. It's like my body has been reduced to nothing but pain and fear, and there's no escape.

I try to steady myself, to push the thought away, but it lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

What if this is it? What if this is who I am now—someone who can't even drive, someone who can't do the things that used to feel like second nature?

I blink rapidly, but the tears come anyway. They burn, hot and unexpected, and I wipe at my face with the back of my hand. The last thing I want is for my mom to see me like this, weak and broken.

She gently wipes away the tear I missed. "It's okay to cry. You don't have to hide it from me."

I close my eyes again, letting the tears fall freely now. It's not like I can stop them. Like I can stop this stupid illness. It's not like I can pretend everything is okay when it's clearly not. I can't hold it in anymore.

"We're going to get through this," Mom assures.

I want to believe her. I really do. But the fear lingers.