I was sitting on my couch, sprawled out, staring at the ceiling. I was doing absolutely nothing. I want to say it felt great, but it didn’t feel like much of anything at all.

I could have gone into work, or perhaps reviewed some material for Bella’s calculus class. I could have cleaned my house a day early, or done some maintenance. I could play a new game, or try a new recipe. There was no end of things to try.

I stood to get a glass of water. Dehydration and depression can look eerily similar. That is what I told myself; and sometimes drinking water would make me feel better.

Outside, the winter wind was blowing. It made the dreamcatcher spin crazily. During a lull, I saw that the weather and the wind were causing the colors to fade from its feathers. A windchime was meant to be outside; a dreamcatcher was meant to hang over your bed.

I didn’t have the energy to drag a chair out there and take it down. I'd do it later, when it was warmer.

I swallowed.

If I left it, it would fray and be destroyed–so I forced myself to grab one of my chairs and go outside. The wind howled, like it wanted to yank the dream catcher from my hands and carry it away to someone more worthy.

It was damaged, but far from destroyed. I smiled as I carried it in. Sometimes it was better to just take care of a short chore immediately, than delay for the perfect time–my rule was that if it took less than five minutes, I’d do it as soon as I noticed it needed to be done.

I brought the dreamcatcher in, and hung it on a tack in my room. “There,” I said to myself. “Now you’ll be safe.” It was far from any windows or wind. I ended up taking a nap right after I had brought it in.

I woke up to a text from Bella, apologizing for our fight. The relief was immense. But then, she said that she wanted to take a break from working out together.

It was like going through a breakup twice in a row. I wondered if she was trying to give me and Emma some space. I let her know that Emma and I had broken up, but she didn’t say anything about wanting to spend more time together.

—

On the day of my doctor’s appointment, Chloe called me into the office. I was afraid that she was going to ask about my sour mood. I’d been irritated: Bella was still avoiding me, and I felt so weak all the time. I was going to bring it up to my doctor.

However, Chloe had things to say to me that were far worse than a commentary on my mood.

“Milo, I’m so sorry about this,” said Chloe. “I argued with them, but they wouldn’t listen.”

She spread some papers out in front of me. On the top was written “Performance Improvement Plan.” I recognized this; these were magic words the company uttered when it was preparing to fire someone. Chloe looked remorseful, as though she was already telling me that I’d be let go.

She was telling me that I’d be let go. By the time you got a performance improvement plan, it was just a formality with a three month delay.

“Why…” I asked.

“Do you want the real reason, or the official reason?” she asked. “With the understanding that the real reason doesn’t leave this room.”

“Real. Of course.” I could see the official reason on the documents; I hadn’t been meeting performance quotas. They called them quotas to make them seem definitive, but quotas were made on a department basis and were amorphous as hell. What it really meant, was that someone higher up had attributed less of our sales to me than I deserved.

“The real reason is that you aren’t in the office as much as you used to be,” said Chloe.

‘Well, of course not,” I said. “I’ve been working regular hours, and taking an occasional day off to prevent a recurrence of my illness.”

“Two weeks out of three, you take a day off. Sometimes two.”

“I suppose.”

“You can see how that looks bad, right? You are working much less than before.” My overtime had been intense; she was probably right.

“I’m about three-quarters as productive as I was, though.” Sitting in an office didn’t make emails arrive any faster. “That’s pretty impressive, when you consider it.”

“Your absence is significant, and it seems to be worsening over time.”

“My time here is so much more efficient, though.”

“It doesn’t matter. The perception is that you are lazy.”

“I never took any time off for the first three years, I’ve earned a bit of a break. And we do have unlimited time off?” I thought about it for a second. “It’s like I’ve been taking a two week vacation once a year, except instead I took it one day a week for five months.”

She shook her head. “It’s easier to plan around contiguous time off.”

“We don’t have to plan around a four day week, at all.” I had to correct myself. “Once it’s a habit, there’s no changing of plans, I mean.” I felt heat underneath my collar. I was getting angry, and embarrassed. Anger was less painful than shame. “I worked my ass off, Chloe, to make the customer meeting go well.”

“You did, but that was months ago, and this is now. I’m sorry, Milo. You could follow the performance improvement plan, but your reputation here has been damaged.” She gathered the papers and set them in front of me. “I did what I could to ameliorate it, but it wasn’t enough.”

I stared at her. She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Something was clicking into place: Chloe was one of the people who provided feedback on my performance reviews. She was one of the people who tallied my contribution. Even the process for promotions would ask for her feedback. Hadn’t I admired her, for helping people flourish at this company?

I was no longer flourishing. Which was more likely; that the most senior, trusted individual’s feedback was ignored in defiance of all logic, or that she had actually given me a poor ranking?

“Just one question,” I said. I was too exhausted to second-guess my intuition, anymore. “Why Graham, instead of me?”

“Milo, that–”

“You made the recommendation, right? You approved it too. I want to know why.” I put my hand on the table. “Why didn’t you put your foot down, when they didn’t choose me? I’ve been here for years. I accomplish more than he accomplishes in a week, every single day.”

She stared at me. “So this is about the promotion. Is that why you are so unmotivated?”

“No,” I said. “Maybe. I’m just doing my job, instead of the job I’d wanted, and my job is much easier.”

“You can’t think of this as anything but a decrease in output.” I wanted to say something snarky, like my output matches my pay, but I managed to hold back.

“Just tell me why,” I said. “If you give me that, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll quit, or strive to be my old self, or follow this plan until I’m almost-certainly fired. Just tell me why I was passed over, so I can understand.” I picked up my hand and put it on my face. My voice had grown softer and softer. “And so I can not make this mistake, again.”

“You are not four times as productive as Graham, Milo.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe eight months ago you were more productive than him, but now? You are seriously flagging.” She looked down at the paper, her eyes wide. “I don’t know how you can’t see it. You’re lethargic, slow, missing work–”

“That’s a temporary–”

“You were hospitalized! Yes, I accepted Graham for the senior position, but not because he deserved it. That was because I didn’t want you to die, Milo! Hanahaki was killing you –you said to yourself that stress was the cause!”

“You–”

“I promoted Graham because you wouldn’t have lived through it.” I felt my head reel. Had she really protected me? I wanted people to protect me, right? Or was she making excuses, now, for her callousness then?

“Well, now for my part,” I said. “What should I do?”

“You should leave this job, stop giving so much of your money away, heal up, and come back when you’re really ready,” she said. “There will be a place for you.”

“Despite how I left?”

“I promise,” she said. “You were our best employee. You can be, again, when you feel better.”

“Shouldn’t I try to get unemployment, or something…?” I said. “In fact, they definitely can’t fire me because I got sick.”

“I looked it up. Hanahaki isn’t a protected condition, I’m sorry to say.” She flicked a paper on the table, and went on. “They will claim they fired you for poor performance. They are covering their asses.”

I slowly nodded. “It’s killing me, you said.”

“You’re like a husk of your former self.” She exhaled unhappily. “No-one will say it to you directly, but…”

“Well, thank you, I guess,” I said as I took the papers. “I’m going to think about it for a day or two. I’m taking the rest of the day off, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.” I’d put it on the company calendar, so I didn’t have to say it, but I figured I’d mention it so she wouldn’t get the wrong idea about me walking out immediately.

I needed to look things up for myself. I couldn’t trust Chloe about protected conditions, or any other advice for that matter. Some of my distrust must have seeped into my voice.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Milo,” she said as I got up. She grabbed my sleeve. “I’m truly sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“You don’t have to quit or anything,” she said, “But at least, tell me you understand?” I was shocked to realize that Chloe was holding back tears. I grit my teeth; every time someone cried, something awful was happening to me. “You did work your ass off. You did it for years. You don’t deserve this–but I had to make a decision! I tried to do the right thing, Milo…!”

“I don’t know if you did what was right,” I said, somewhat coldly, but then I pushed some warmth into my voice. “But I do understand, Chloe. I probably would have done the same.” I swallowed. I didn’t want her to suffer for no reason. “Thank you,” I said, to help her feel better.

She nodded and let go of my sleeve. I left the meeting room. I tried not to stomp away, or slam the door.

I fumed as I walked to the front of the building. My anger grew and grew. Chloe hadn’t asked me what I wanted, she’d made assumptions about what was good for me and acted unilaterally. That pissed me off.

That she could start to cry, and then I had to let go of my own emotions–that pissed me off more. Chloe had never cried to me, but it was powerful. I wondered if it was some sort of technique of hers or not.

If I’d cried to her it would have done jack shit for me. I was already perceived as weak, wasn’t I? I was already being punished? I felt my eyes water and tried to hold it in.

I was sick with an illness, but I wasn’t a fucking child. If I wanted to work myself to death, that was my right. I should at least be consulted about it! Chloe had just ignored any possible input on the matter. But she wasn’t the only one who thought she knew better.

Diana, who thought I was some sort of beast and had to be avoided. Dr. Dominic, pushing me to date when I didn’t want to, when it wouldn’t even help. The Brookes, assuming I didn’t see my own emotions. Emma, who gave me one impossible decision then made all others. Anna, standing far back, twisting the knife when I approached.

Bella, who wasn’t different from the others, after all. I checked my phone; nothing. Nobody tried to genuinely help me, they all just tried to steer me like a ball rolling down a hill.

I was sick of people. I hated people. I just wanted to be alone, I realized. Pretending to be an extrovert–fuck that. I’d go home and play videogames by myself, as God intended. I made a small laugh.

Their manipulation wasn’t what angered me the most. All of these people, thinking they knew better than I did–that was irritating, of course, but it wasn’t why I was infuriated.

The unbelievably frustrating part was that some of them were probably right. Some probably could help me. They might all be wrong, or all have pieces of the truth, but it’s not like I knew any better than they did. I couldn’t tell the damn difference between someone who’d be there for me, and someone who would just hurt me pointlessly.

Maybe it would be better if I just avoided all of them.

As I opened my car door, the person I hated the most was myself. I was a failure, I was weak, I was getting what I deserved, and I was powerless to stop it. My lack of power proved my worthlessness. I didn’t want to do anything, for the first time in a long time. I didn’t think things could possibly get worse.

—

The only reason I went to the doctor, that day, was that I had an appointment that a better version of me had made. It was core to my person that when I couldn’t think I stuck to the plan, even if it was painful and difficult and I couldn’t remember what I’d hoped to get from it all in the first place. I made plans while I was in a good state of mind, so that when I faltered I’d have something to fall back on. I’d done it in college, I’d done it at work, and now I did it in my day-to-day life.

I told Dr. Dominic that my chest hurt. He seemed concerned.

“I’ve been very stressed,” I said. “It’s been a hell of a couple of weeks.”

“Why is that?” he asked, sitting down. He was looking straight at me.

“My girlfriend broke up with me. I lost my job, and my best friends.” I pulled my breath in sharply through my nose. “You know, the usual implosion of a life.” I was idly surprised to see genuine concern on his face.

“Milo, if things are going really horribly, you need to reach out for help.”

“To who, exactly?” I asked. “I’ve lost most of my friends. I’m not sure where I stand with my neighbors, now that I’ve angered their daughter.”

“Dating someone close to you can be awkward,” he said, and I didn’t have the energy to explain what had really happened.

“Honestly, everything is shit right now, and I don’t want to burden anyone with it.”

“There is an entire profession of people whose job is to help you deal with it. Have you considered visiting a therapist?”

“Therapy,” I said. I sighed. “I hadn’t considered it.”

“People get wrapped up in their issues, and forget to ask for help,” he said. “I think you need this help in particular.”

“You’re right, of course,” I said. “I haven't lost my job quite yet. Maybe I can turn it around, while I can still afford it.”

Dr. Dominic slapped his hands down onto his knees as he stood. “After this appointment you should go talk to Mrs. Calor, the receptionist.” He pulled out his stethoscope to listen to chest.

“Will she get me in contact with a therapist?”

“No. She’ll explain how insurance works, and how to extend your benefits while you’re between jobs. Deep breath, please.”

If I were going to maximize the benefit I got from my job, I should persist for at least a little bit. The thought of continuing to go to work there for three more months, until they could fire me without repercussions, filled me with malaise. I considered it while Dr. Dominic listened.

“Again.” I did as he asked. “I think your lungs are irritated. I’m going to have to recommend another scan for hanahaki.”

I nodded, weakly. I was ready to pay the piper.

“Is there any reason why your lungs would be irritated?”

“No,” I croaked. “No, no. This isn’t fair.”

“I’m sorry, Milo,” he said. He put a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve got to follow up on this.”

But this time the hanahaki surgeon met me in the scanning room, and looked over the shoulder of the technician. I heard when he called for me to be prepped for surgery.

I wasn’t surprised, just defeated.

I’d known something bad was growing inside me. When I thought back, I could see all the little moments of disquiet, or denial, or despair. I’d been trying so hard to recover, and I’d made excuses for my failures so I could keep trying. As though I could sprint a little harder and outrun all my problems.

They took a blood sample before putting me under, to be sent off for special tests.

—

It wasn’t like the last time I’d come out of surgery, at all. My chest ached like it was full of cement. My limbs were weak. I had a mask strapped to my face that was feeding me cold air.

There were people waiting for me to wake up. The Brookes, and this time Bella was with them. I couldn’t speak to them. I could barely see them, at first.

“What are you doing here…” I asked.

“You put us as your emergency contacts,” said Mr. Brookes. “They called us in.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry.” He hadn’t got what I meant. I was sorry to Bella–her parents had dragged her here, even though she wanted nothing to do with me.

“Everything’s alright,” added Mrs. Brookes. I felt something and looked down. Bella was holding my hand. That was a surprise. I squeezed and looked at her. She was wearing a mask, I noticed.

“Are you sick?” I croaked. My voice hurt, and I was very thirsty.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said.

“Do you have water?” She grabbed a cup and handed me a piece of ice. After surgery I was supposed to take it easy on fluids for a few hours. I remembered it from last time. “Harder than I was expecting,” I said as I tried to put it into my mouth. I was making a joke about the water being frozen, but I also struggled because my oxygen mask was still in the way. Bella pulled my mask aside, and put the ice to my lips. She gently set the mask back in place.

“Thank you,” I said. I held the frozen water between my teeth and waited for it to melt.

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

“I’m glad to see all of you,” I said after the ice had melted. “I gather it didn’t go as well as they’d hoped.”

“The nurse that called me said it was hanahaki type B,” said Mr. Brookes. “Apparently your lungs bled significantly during the surgery. It was a close thing.”

“How significantly…” I said. It felt like I was breathing gravel.

“They gave you more than one unit of blood,” he said. “Milo, I’m deeply sorry.”

“What?” I asked. “Why?”

“This clearly isn’t just hanahaki,” he responded. “I didn’t take your illness seriously.”

“None of us did,” said Bella. “I tried, though.”

“Stop it,” I said. “You guys have always been there for me. It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry we can’t do more to help,” said Mr. Brookes. I waved a hand.

“Let’s grill some burgers when I get out of here. That’s all I really want.”

He smiled. “Of course, absolutely.”

—

Dr. Dominic was explaining the tests they had run after my surgery. A blood test; white blood cells, immune reaction. I was having a hard time following. I’d just woken up.

“What did you call it?”

“Sarcoidosis,” said Dr. Dominic. He sat next to my hospital bed. His voice was gentle, apologetic even, but there was hardness in his eyes. I realized the hardness was for himself, not for me, and that he’d had to steel himself for this conversation. “It’s an extremely rare disease.”

“What is the prognosis?” I asked. I didn’t want him to beat around the bush, but apparently he felt that he had to give me some background before he could answer the most important questions.

“Not good,” he said. “Your immune system is attacking your lungs, making them vulnerable to hanahaki. You have significant fibrosis already. Over time the damage will worsen. You might try a lung transplant, but… lung transplants are temporary, at best.”

“I didn’t know they could transplant lungs.” I said. I’d heard of other organ transplantations; hands, kidneys, etc. I wondered if hearts were also possible.

“They can’t,” he responded. “Not effectively. They will try, of course, if you give them permission–but it isn’t likely to succeed given the certainty of reinfection with hanahaki.” Dr. Dominic looked at the wall. “Treatments for these two issues are opposed. Antiflorals will aggravate your immune system; immunosuppressants will embolden the hanahaki. Immunosuppressants are the less-effective option, generally, but there is a small chance you’ll respond better to those.” He met my eyes. “You will have to choose.”

“I have to choose…which way to die?”

“I’m sorry, Milo.”

“How long will my lungs last?”

“You could have as many as several years.” He swallowed. “Based on my research and the progression of your disease so far, I would expect somewhat less. Perhaps as little as a few months.”

“It’s really deadly, huh.” I was in a daze. The words came out of my mouth while my mind was elsewhere; all of my plans were dying right in front of me, ahead of schedule.

“The problem is the hanahaki. Your immune system is damaging your lungs, yes, but the parasites are more active as a result.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Now Dr. Dominic was getting emotional, and I tried not to hold it against him. It was subtle; he was a doctor, and had probably had conversations like this before. However, I could see him shifting with a different sort of discomfort than impatience.

It was surreal. I felt disconnected from everything, and it allowed me to see his emotions so clearly. My own emotions had decided to fuck off somewhere and leave me alone. I was grateful for the reprieve.

“I’m sorry, Milo,” he said again. “This isn’t an illness we have a good answer for. Only a few dozen people get it per year.”

“Aren’t autoimmune diseases pretty common?”

“Not of the lungs,” he said. “Some theorize it’s an adaptation to hanahaki itself, but others think running was important first, and hanahaki only came later…” He shifted again. “That’s not relevant to your decision-making process.”

“It is, at least a little bit.” I said. I made the effort to sit up. “But I think I’ll have to skip the lesson for now. Do I have any other option, than to just…”

“Not that I know of,” he said. “I’ve reached out to the sarcoidosis experts. You’ll likely hear from them.”

“What do I do?” I asked him.

“You get your affairs in order,” he said. Dr. Dominic stood. “It is time for a decision, Milo. Immunosuppressants, or antiflorals?”

“I don’t want to get hanahaki again,” I said. He looked pained.

“You don’t really have a choice, regarding that.”

“Give me the immunosuppressants, then. I’ve got to try everything I can.”

“It might shorten your life.”

“But we already have a lot of evidence that antiflorals won’t work.”

“That’s right.”

“Then I’ll take that chance, thank you very much. Will I get to go home, again?”

“Yes,” he said. “Next week, if it goes well when we take you off oxygen.”