Day 13: Sam’s Wisdom

Wednesday

Sam showed up at the office today, unannounced as always, like some wandering philosopher who stumbles in just to make my day more surreal. This time, he brought a box of stale donuts and a question:

“What if plants have opinions about us?”

I stared at him, mid-sip of my tea. “I think they’d hate you specifically for watering them with leftover coffee.”

He grinned, taking that as a compliment. “Maybe. Or maybe they secretly admire my creativity.”

“You mean your laziness?”

“Same thing,” he said, shrugging.

He has this way of saying absurd things with complete sincerity, like he’s not trying to be funny but just can’t help it.

Then he looked at me, his grin fading just slightly.

“You look pale,” he said, squinting at me like a doctor who’d watched too many crime shows. “Are you okay?”

I glanced up from my screen, caught off guard. “Yeah, totally fine. Just... haven’t seen the sun in a while. You know, the usual office vampire thing.”

Sam didn’t buy it.

But how do you explain that to someone without dropping a bomb like, ‘Oh, I’m dying, that's why.’

Instead, I asked, “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Spreading enlightenment,” he said, waving a donut like it was sacred.

“Enlightenment tastes like cardboard?”

“You wound me.” He sat on the edge of my desk, leaning in conspiratorially, his box of donuts precariously balanced between us. “You sure? You don’t seem fine.”

Before I could come up with another deflection, Linda, our ever-vigilant manager, materialized out of nowhere like a storm cloud in sensible heels.

“Does someone here have so much free time they can host social hour?” she snapped, her eyes darting between me and Sam.

I wanted to melt into the floor.

“I was just—”

“You were just chatting while deadlines pile up,” Linda cut me off. She crossed her arms, looking at Sam like he was a stray dog tracking mud into her pristine office. “And you—don’t you have a department to run?”

Sam grinned, completely unfazed. “Linda, life’s too short to skip donut breaks. Want one?”

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She ignored him, her attention snapping back to me. “You look fine to me, so get back to work.”

“Right. Of course.” I ducked my head, hiding my flushed cheeks as Linda stomped off to terrorize someone else.

Sam waited a beat, then leaned in closer, his voice low. “She thinks you look fine. I don’t.”

I let out a nervous laugh, fiddling with a paperclip on my desk. “Well, I’m not about to argue with Linda’s medical expertise.”

“You’re being coy,” he said, his tone half-teasing, half-serious. “But seriously, if you need to talk—”

“Thanks, but I’m okay,” I cut him off, more sharply than I intended.

Sam stared at me silently, then pushed the box of donuts toward me. “At least take one. Sugar fixes everything.”

I hesitated, then grabbed a donut just to make him go away. Not that I didn’t like him being there—I did. Too much. But I couldn’t handle his concern, or the way it made me feel like I was teetering on the edge of something I didn’t want to face.

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The rest of the day was a blur. I worked on autopilot, dodging Linda’s glares and half-listening to my coworkers complain about the printer. Sam’s question stayed with me, though: Are you okay?

Was I?

When I got home that evening, Mom was in the kitchen, humming a tune I didn’t recognize. I hovered in the doorway, watching her slice vegetables with a precision that felt almost aggressive.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up.

“Sorry. Got caught up at work.”

She glanced at me then, her eyes narrowing. “You look pale.”

“It’s just the lighting,” I said automatically.

She didn’t respond, but the way her gaze lingered made my skin crawl.

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At night, as I lay in y bed, the dizziness hit me again.

I sat up, gripping the side of the bed as my nails dig into the mattress. My heart raced, and for a moment, I thought I might black out.

Then it hit—a sharp, twisting pain in my stomach. I bolted for the bathroom, barely making it to the sink before I retched. My body convulsed, emptying whatever little I’d managed to eat earlier. The sour taste burned the back of my throat as I leaned over the sink, trembling.

I reached for the faucet, fumbling to rinse my mouth, but my hand stopped mid-air when I saw the blood.

It dripped from my nose, staining the white porcelain sink with streaks of red. For a moment, I just stared, frozen, as if it wasn’t my blood, as if it wasn’t my body betraying me.

The pain in my head grew sharper, pounding like someone was hammering from the inside. My knees buckled, and I slid down to the floor, cold tiles pressing against my skin. The world felt distant, like I was underwater, every sound muffled except the pounding in my skull.

I tried to call out—to anyone, to no one—but my voice cracked, weak and useless. My vision blurred, tears mixing with the blood still dripping from my nose.

I wanted it to stop. The spinning, the pain, the crushing weight in my chest—it was too much.

Curling up on the bathroom floor, I pressed my forehead against the cool tile, hoping it might anchor me somehow. My thoughts scattered, fragmented, like the broken plates from earlier.

I thought of Mom, her gaze slicing through me like glass. “You look pale.”

I thought of Dad, his back always turned, walking away like nothing had happened.

And then, nothing. Just the sound of blood dripping on the floor.

The blood kept coming, staining my hands as I pressed tissues to my face, trying to stop it, trying to keep it together. But the harder I tried, the more it felt like I was breaking apart, piece by piece.

I forced myself to move, dragging my body upright. I splashed cold water on my face, the sting snapping me back for a moment. The pills were in the drawer, buried beneath band-aids and the promises I’d stopped believing in.

My hands shook as I grabbed the bottle. Dr. Sen’s voice replayed like a broken record: “They’ll help with the symptoms.”

I swallowed one. Then another. The bitter taste lingered as I gripped the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection.

Pale. Hollow. Not me, not anymore.

I walked back to my room in a haze, each step heavier than the last and collapsed on my bed.

It felt like I was slipping—out of control, out of time, out of everything.

Sam’s voice lingered in my mind: “You don’t look fine.”

Yeah, I don’t.