Ava lay still, staring blankly at the sterile white ceiling above her. The already boring gray colors now looked duller, more lifeless, and heavier, just like the air surrounding her.
The soft hum of machines, the beep of her IV monitor, and the whispering shuffle of PPE-covered maids replaced the usual calm. Her world was now saturated with antiseptic fog and quiet, suffocating dread.
The IV stand beside her looked more like a shackle than a lifeline, the translucent tubing curled like a tether that bound her to reality she didn't ask for.
The needle bit into her skin, a reminder that she was not just exhausted—she was ill, fragile, watched. Two nurses stood nearby, scribbling notes on their clipboards, muttering numbers and terms she couldn't decipher. She didn't care to try.
