You were sprawled across your bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster like you'd done a hundred times before. The house was quiet. Too quiet, maybe. Your parents were downstairs watching TV, the low murmur of the news a distant hum.

And then it happened.

A tickle in your throat. Small at first, like a cough you could swallow down. You cleared your throat, rolled over, tried to ignore it.

But it came again. Sharper. A cough that rattled up from somewhere deep in your chest, the kind that made your ribs ache. You sat up, pressed a hand to your mouth, coughed again—harder—and when you pulled your hand away, there was red.

Blood. Bright and wet in the dim light of your room.

Your heart stopped. Then kicked back into gear, racing. You stared at your palm like it belonged to someone else. The blood was still there. Still wet. Still real.

Outside, a car rumbled down the street, and for a second, you thought about Johnny. About the way he'd looked at you tonight when you'd said goodnight—that soft, careful look he always gave you, like you were something precious. Like he'd break if you broke.

You couldn't tell him. You couldn't.

The blood was still on your hand. And somewhere in your chest, something heavy and cold settled in, like a stone you couldn't cough up.