At three in the morning, I was dead to the world when Gavin suddenly ripped the covers off me and dragged me out of bed. His words tumbled out in a frantic rush—he said I was O-negative, that Brooke was hemorrhaging, and the hospital's blood bank was completely tapped out. I winced, rubbing my eyes, and told him I was severely anemic. My body couldn't handle a blood donation. He didn't listen. He just started shoving my arms into my winter coat, rushing me toward the door, insisting they only needed a pint and that Brooke was fading fast. Sitting in the passenger seat of his SUV, the streetlights blurring into streaks of yellow against the dark glass, the name Brooke acted like a physical barb in my chest. Instantly, it dragged me back to the darkest, bloodiest memory of my high school years. She was the ringleader. The girl who tormented me, who ultimately shoved me down a flight of concrete stairs, shattering my leg and permanently robbing me of my future in dance. It was Gavin who had called the police back then. Because of him, the school couldn't just sweep it under the rug. Brooke was expelled, and she practically vanished from the earth. I never imagined that seven years later, I would hear her name in Gavin’s mouth again—and certainly not like this. I turned my head to look at his sharp profile. I asked him if he remembered the months I spent in the hospital during my junior year. He stiffened. His eyes darted away from mine, fixing on the road. He muttered that Brooke hadn't had an easy life these past few years, and at the end of the day, a life was a life. A hollow, broken laugh escaped my lips. I didn't say another word. Later, the moment the thick needle pierced the vein in my arm, a sharp, electronic chime echoed directly inside my skull. A synthesized voice spoke. It told me that even though I was currently playing the role of the tragic heroine in a cheap melodrama, I still needed to respect my own body. It told me I had to learn how to say no. I flinched, my breath hitching. In a terrified whisper, I asked it what I was supposed to do. The electronic voice instantly spiked in volume, ordering me to pull the IV needle out right this second, walk out the front doors, take a left, and spend twenty bucks on a lottery ticket. 1. I stared at the plastic tubing taped to my inner arm, my hand shaking violently. The System urged me in my head. “Pull it out! Trust me!” But I was terrified. If I pulled it out, how would Gavin look at me? Would he think I was a monster? Would he think I was selfish? Would he... leave me? The glare of the hospital lights overhead was blinding. It reminded me of the lights from seven years ago. I had been lying in a pool of my own blood, watching Brooke’s silhouette disappear at the top of the stairs. When the paramedics finally arrived, the ER doctor had looked at my charts and said, "Compound fractures. I'm sorry, sweetie, but you're never going to dance again." Gavin was the one who stayed by my side. He came to the hospital every single day. He held my hand through the agonizing physical therapy, told me terrible jokes to make me smile through the tears. I remember him brushing the hair from my sweaty forehead, whispering, "It's okay, June. I'm not going anywhere. I'll always be right here." Because of that, for the five years we had been together, he had been my entire universe. I painted for him, I cooked his favorite meals, I waited by the window for him to come home. I bent my life to fit into the spaces he left for me. And now, he was forcing me to bleed for the girl who broke me. “Do it now!” the System commanded. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripped the plastic hub of the needle, and ripped it out. Dark crimson blood immediately welled up and spilled over my skin. A nurse down the hall shrieked and started running toward me. The door slammed open. Gavin froze in the threshold. "June, what the hell are you doing?!" I looked up at him. For the first time in my life, I found the strength to say, "I don't want to do this." "You..." The color drained from his face, replaced by a dark, furious disbelief. "Do you realize she is dying in there?" "I know." I stood up. My bad left leg trembled under my weight, the old aches flaring, but I locked my knee and held my ground. "But I'm dying too." He reached out to grab my arm. I flinched away. As I limped out of the ER, his voice cracked like a whip down the tiled hallway: "You are being incredibly selfish, June!" I didn't look back. The air outside the hospital was bitter cold. The wind bit into my bad leg, making a deep, familiar ache settle in the bone. “Fifty yards to your left. There’s a bodega that sells lotto tickets,” the System instructed. I dragged my leg down the sidewalk. As I passed the wing where Brooke's room was, I looked up and saw a lit window on the third floor. My heart slammed against my ribs. Seven years. I thought I had buried that terror. But just looking at the glass, my mind was flooded with the sensation of freefall, the sickening crack of my bones on the concrete. I clamped a hand over my mouth, bile rising in my throat. 2. The guy behind the counter at the bodega raised an eyebrow as I bought a twenty-dollar scratch-off. "Late night for a walk, hon, especially with that limp." I just nodded, keeping my eyes down. “You’re going to win five million dollars,” the System said matter-of-factly. I didn't believe it, but I clutched the ticket anyway. On the walk back to our apartment, my phone vibrated constantly. Gavin. I let it ring. When I finally reached our front door, he was already there, leaning against the frame, radiating anger. "What is wrong with you tonight?" he snapped. "Brooke almost died. Do you get that?" "I have anemia." I stared at his shoes. "I could have died, too." "It was a single pint of blood, June, it wouldn't have killed you!" His voice echoed in the quiet hallway. "You just couldn't bring yourself to help her!" I stopped talking. What could I even say? Tell him I was terrified of her? Tell him my leg throbbed with a phantom agony every time her name was spoken? Tell him I wished, just once, he would look at my frail, broken body with the same desperate panic he had just shown for her? The words wouldn't come. Seeing my silence, his jaw tightened. "Fine. Play the victim." He shoved past me, got back into his car, and drove off. I sat alone in our dark living room. The streetlights cast the shadows of the large oak tree outside across the hardwood floor, swaying like ghosts. Seven years. From the day my leg was shattered until now, that tree had shed its leaves seven times. And I was still trapped at the bottom of the staircase. “You did the right thing,” the System murmured. “Nothing is more important than your own survival.” But my chest felt like it was caving in. The next morning, I scratched the ticket. I held my phone in one hand, comparing the numbers, my fingers trembling so badly I almost dropped it. Five million dollars. It was real. “See?” the System said, sounding deeply smug. “I told you. This is the down payment on your new life.” I stared at the iridescent foil shavings on my kitchen counter, completely speechless. Gavin didn't come home for the next three days. He sent one text: “I’m at the hospital with Brooke. Her condition is unstable.” I replied: “Okay.” He didn't text back. I opened the leather-bound journal I kept in my nightstand. The pages were filled with my meticulous, desperate handwriting, documenting every late night he'd had over the past six months. October 3rd. Said he was working late at the firm. Came home at 2 AM. October 10th. Client dinner. Home at 1 AM. October 18th. Said an employee was hospitalized, went to check on them. Never came home. I read the lines, one by one. A strange, broken giggle bubbled up in my throat, but the tears fell faster than the laughter could form. Outside the window, the oak leaves were falling again. I remembered how he had held my waist during physical therapy, promising he would be my crutch forever. Now, he wouldn't even come home to sleep in our bed. The System paused, recalibrating. When it spoke again, the electronic hum was softer, tinged with a strange, synthetic sorrow. “He changed, June.” Listening to its awkward, robotic empathy, I nodded slowly. "I know." That evening, Gavin finally texted: “Brooke is being discharged tomorrow. I’m going to pick her up.” I stared at the glowing pixels. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard before typing: “Can I come with you?” Sent. One minute passed. Three minutes. Five. He left me on read. 3. I went to the hospital anyway. He didn't stop me from getting in the car, but he didn't welcome me, either. The drive was suffocatingly silent. When we walked into the ward, the heavy stench of antiseptic made my stomach churn. I pressed my hand over my nose and mouth. It was the exact same smell from seven years ago. Lying in that stark white bed, the orthopedic surgeon looking down at me with pity. “Comminuted fracture of the left femur and tibia. The joint is irreparably damaged. She won't dance again.” I had screamed until my throat bled. I had been dancing since I was a toddler. My mother used to brush my hair and tell me, “June is going to be the most beautiful prima ballerina in the world.” Brooke shoved me down the stairs, and the music stopped forever. "We're here," Gavin said, stopping abruptly. I looked up. Brooke was standing in the doorway of her private room. She was drowning in an oversized hospital gown, her face pale, looking agonizingly fragile. My bad leg buckled slightly, a tremor radiating up my spine. Cold sweat broke out across my neck. It felt like the ceiling was slowly crushing me. It was her. It was really her. Seven years, and she still had the exact same face. My mind flashed to her cruel, glittering smile as she stood over me. “Trash belongs in the gutter.” I remembered the sharp point of her stiletto grinding into my knuckles. The sudden, violent force of her hands on my shoulders. I couldn't breathe. "June?" Gavin noticed my pallor and instinctively reached out to steady me. "What's wrong?" I couldn't form words. Brooke saw me. She froze for a fraction of a second before a soft, deeply apologetic smile bloomed on her face. "June... about everything that happened back then... I'm so sorry." She took a hesitant step forward, reaching out as if to take my hand. I recoiled violently. She dropped her hand, looking utterly heartbroken. "June, do you still hate me? I know I was wrong. We were just kids, I was so stupid and mean... but life has punished me. I've eaten dirt for the last seven years. I think about what I did to you every single day..." As she spoke, tears welled up in her large, doe-like eyes, spilling over her pale cheeks. Gavin sighed, a heavy, protective sound. "June, Brooke already owned up to her mistakes." Brooke? Since when did he drop her last name and say it with such tender familiarity? Brooke aggressively wiped at her eyes, her voice trembling. "June, I know you despise me. But I've changed, I swear. All these years, working bottle service at seedy clubs, letting disgusting men grope and humiliate me... every time they put their hands on me, I thought of you. I told myself it was karma. I deserved it." Gavin’s eyes softened completely. The hardness in his jaw melted away. I looked back and forth between them. I felt a hysterical urge to laugh. The System’s voice crackled sharply in my head. “Do not buy a word of this. She is acting.” I know. But no one else believed me. After he finished the discharge paperwork, Brooke reached out and grabbed Gavin's sleeve. "Thank you for taking care of me these past few days." Her hands were delicate, her nails painted a soft, innocent pink. Gavin didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his grip. I watched his fingers lace through hers. Right there in the hospital corridor, in front of the nurses, in front of God, in front of me, their fingers intertwined. My crippled leg flared with a blinding, white-hot agony. 4. Walking down the hospital steps, my knee finally gave out. I stumbled forward, bracing for impact. Gavin didn't catch me. He was too busy holding the door for Brooke. Brooke, with four perfectly functioning limbs, practically skipped to the passenger side of his SUV and pulled the door open. I stood on the pavement, frozen, staring at the empty space in front of me. It wasn't until Gavin looked over, a crease of annoyance between his brows, that the spell broke. "Are you getting in or what?" Brooke suddenly gasped, covering her mouth as she shot me a sickly-sweet, apologetic smile. "Oh my gosh, June, I'm so sorry! I totally forgot this is your seat. It's just... I get terrible motion sickness in the back. Do you mind if I take shotgun?" She pressed her palms together in a pleading gesture, giving me a playful little wink. Numb, I dragged myself into the back seat. My entire body was shaking violently. All I could see was their laced fingers. Brooke glanced at me in the rearview mirror, her eyes wide with faux concern. "June, are you cold? Why are you shaking so much?" My breath caught. Suddenly, I wasn't in the car anymore. I was back in the dim, damp locker room behind the gym seven years ago. Brooke had been smiling that exact same sweet smile as she gripped my hair, forced my school shirt off, and used a black Sharpie to write "MUTT" across my chest. She had asked me the exact same question then: “June, are you cold? Why are you shaking so much?” My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they broke the skin. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth where I had bitten the inside of my cheek. Brooke was still talking. "June, I get the feeling you really... hate me. And it's totally fair! I hate the person I used to be, too. If I could, I'd become your servant just to make up for the pain I caused you." Her eyes were the picture of earnestness. I still couldn't speak. It felt like someone had shoved a fistful of raw cotton down my throat. Gavin let out an exasperated sigh. "It's just an old condition she has. Don't worry about it." He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Mixed in with a superficial layer of concern was an emotion I couldn't quite decipher—annoyance? Pity? Resentment? The drive home was suffocating. I remained mute in the back, Gavin drove in silence, while Brooke effortlessly filled the dead air, playing the charming, reformed survivor, telling self-deprecating stories about her struggles in the service industry. Gavin listened, a faint, fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were heavy with a protective ache for her. He dropped me off at our apartment first. He looked at my deathly pale face, and his tone cooled, tinged with a deep exhaustion. "Brooke is still really weak. I need to get her settled at her place." I nodded slowly. "Okay." "Just go upstairs," he said, not even looking me in the eye. "I'll be back later." "Oh," I whispered. I stood on the curb, the cold wind whipping my hair, and watched his taillights disappear down the avenue. “She’s manipulating you, and she’s manipulating him,” the System said. I wrapped my arms around myself. "Maybe you're reading too much into it?" “I am an advanced algorithm, June, I don't 'read into things'!” the System snapped. “She is putting on a masterclass in gaslighting!” "Maybe... maybe she really did change?" I sat on the floor of my living room, pulling my knees to my chest. "People grow up." “You—” The System cut off, too frustrated to formulate a response. I spent the afternoon in my makeshift art studio. I tried to paint. I tried to paint the girl from seven years ago, in her white tulle skirt, standing center stage under the hot lights. But I couldn't get it right. Every time I painted the left leg, it came out crooked. Broken. Bent at an unnatural angle. I hurled my brushes across the room and buried my face in my arms on the desk. Outside, the oak tree had lost the last of its leaves. Gavin didn't come home until ten o'clock that night. "Is Brooke feeling better?" I asked quietly from the couch. "She's okay." He shrugged off his jacket. It smelled heavily of cheap cigarette smoke. "She lives in this dump of a studio. It's really rough on her." I wanted to scream. What about me? I sat in this empty apartment all day waiting for you. Is that not rough on me? But I swallowed the words. I was terrified of making him angry. “Say it!” the System yelled in my head. “Scream at him! Call him a bastard, call him a narcissist, call him a piece of shit!” “You are his fiancé! You have every right to demand to know why he’s prioritizing the woman who crippled you!” I shook my head imperceptibly. I was afraid if I pushed him, he'd roll his eyes and call me petty. I was afraid he'd say: Look at you. You're not even half the woman Brooke is. I was terrified of losing him. After the year of relentless bullying, after being pushed down those stairs, I had developed severe clinical depression. My self-worth was practically non-existent. I didn't dare speak up. I just turned the knife inward, asking myself over and over: Am I being too sensitive? Should I just be the bigger person and forgive her? Around midnight, as we lay in bed, his phone lit up on the nightstand. It was a text from Brooke: “Gav, I’m feeling really dizzy…” He threw the covers back and sat up instantly. "I need to go check on her." Over the System's deafening, screeching alarm in my head, I forced the words past my lips. "Can you... not go?" He paused, one arm in his sweater. "Just get some sleep, June. I'll be back soon." "Can I come with you, then?" Gavin exhaled sharply, a sound dripping with condescension. "I am just checking on her to make sure she doesn't pass out. It's basic human decency. Could you please stop being so paranoid? Your leg is bad enough, you don't need to be dragging yourself out into the cold." And then he walked out. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. A single tear slipped out of the corner of my eye, tracking hotly into my hairline. The System let out a long, static-laced sigh. It didn't say another word. 5. After Gavin left, the silence in the apartment was deafening. I couldn't sleep. I dragged myself out of bed and limped into the studio. On the easel sat my half-finished canvas. The stage, the bright spotlights, the faceless audience in the dark. And the girl in the white dress. I stared at her twisted, broken leg. A sudden, violent sob ripped from my throat. I grabbed a palette knife and slashed it across the canvas, right over the leg. It wasn't enough. I ripped the canvas off the frame. I grabbed the sketches off the wall. I tore the second one, then the third, ripping the heavy paper into shreds. The studio floor was soon buried in torn paper and snapped pencils. I collapsed against the wall, sliding down until I hit the floorboards, my leg throbbing in relentless agony. The System shrieked, “Stop it! June, breathe! Stop hurting yourself! Put your hands down!” I couldn't calm down. Brooke was back. And this time, Gavin hadn't stood in front of me like a shield. He had stepped out of the way to catch her instead. The nightmare from seven years ago was playing on a loop, and I was trapped inside it. I fumbled for my phone and dialed Gavin. It rang out. I called again. Voicemail. I called him fifteen times. Finally, a text came through: “Brooke’s running a fever. I’ll be home when I can.” I stared at the glowing blue bubbles. A laugh ripped out of me, harsh and jagged. A fever. She had a fever, so she needed him to hold her hand through the night. What about me? I was drowning, suffocating on the floor of our home. Where was he? I typed: “I’m hurting too.” He replied instantly: “Take some Tylenol and go to sleep.” Nothing else. I let the phone slip from my fingers. It clattered against the wood. Through the studio window, the city skyline glittered against the dark, alive and careless. But I felt totally consumed by the blackness. Just like that night seven years ago, bleeding out on the cold concrete, the darkness pressing in from all sides. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling into a tight ball in the corner. My bones ached. My heart felt like it was tearing down the middle. “Stop crying,” the System whispered. "I'm not crying," I lied. But the tears poured down my face, hot and relentless. The System let out a soft, humming sigh. “I ordered you some flowers.” I looked up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. "What?" “Sunflowers,” its voice was incredibly gentle now, stripped of all its electronic edge. “It’s a shame I’m just lines of code. If I had arms, I’d try to hug you right now.” I sat there, stunned. After a long time, I whispered, "Thank you." “Don't thank me,” it replied. “You need to learn how to love yourself.” “He is not your savior, June. Only you can save you.” Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was a delivery courier. A massive bouquet of bright, golden sunflowers. Nestled among the heavy petals was a small card. It read: You deserve to be fiercely loved. Holding the flowers to my chest, the dam broke, and I sobbed until I couldn't breathe. The weight of the sunflowers was heavy and real in my arms. I traced the edge of a golden petal and whispered into the empty room, "Are you disappointed in me?" It took a moment, but the System’s voice returned, sounding slightly muffled. “Yes.” “But June, you are just sick right now. And people can heal.”
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