Tula’s thoughts spiraled faster than her breath could catch them. She clutched the hospital blanket like it might hold her together. This wasn’t cancer—not this silence, this ambiguity. It was worse. No one would say the word. No one would meet her eyes. Their restraint was no longer professional—it was cruel.
They’d admitted her “for observation,” as if she were a cloud formation they were waiting to classify. Tests came in waves. Fluids drawn. Monitors beeping. Every answer only raised more questions. But when she asked—really asked—she was met with the kind of silence that didn’t come from not knowing, but from choosing not to say.