He looked at the ring and then thought of Malina's home.
He knew her pain was real, too. With four siblings and parents who were always working, Malina was a ghost in her own house. She was perfect and smart because she had to be to survive the loneliness.
Tanz remained on the couch, the rose-design ring box still heavy in his palm. He felt the crushing weight of his own empathy. He understood Malina's loneliness—the girl who was perfect because she had no choice, a ghost in a house full of siblings.
But he also understood Spinelia's suffocation—the girl who was an echo in her own life. To him, both pains were valid. Both were real. And that was why he felt like he was being torn in half.
A soft ping from his phone broke the silence. His heart skipped a beat, hoping it was Spinelia, but it was a message from her mother.
"Tanz, thank you so much for the food you left. I just reheated it for Lia—she's actually eating a little bit now. We're getting ready to head to the hospital to check if she's fine."
A wave of relief washed over him, followed by a dull ache. She was eating. The usual he had spent two days cooking wasn't going to waste anymore. She was alive, she was moving, even if she wasn't moving toward him yet.
He typed back with a sigh, his thumb lingering over the screen.
"It's no problem, Mom. Please do tell me if something is wrong.."
He set the phone down and looked at the spinel in the ring.
A spinel looks like a ruby or a diamond to the untrained eye, but it is its own unique gem.
He just hoped that by the time they got back from the hospital, there would be enough of Spinelia left to actually wear it.
Tanz stared at the reply he sent to Spinelia's mother. "Please do tell me if something is wrong."
The words felt hollow. He knew something was already wrong. He put his head in his hands, the image of the untouched food from that morning burned into his mind.
He wasn't just worried about her grief anymore. He was thinking about her blood—that fragile, invisible clock ticking inside her.
Every time she spiraled, every time she suffocated herself in the dark, he feared it would be the trigger that turned her predisposition into a reality.
He thought about the hospital hallways. He could imagine her there, sitting stiffly, looking like a thread in the tapestry while the world moved around her.
He felt a surge of protectiveness, but he forced himself to stay on the couch. He had promised space. If he showed up now, would she see it as love, or just more pity?
Tanz stared at his phone when the notification from Spinelia's mom finally appeared.
"She's fine for now, Tanz. The tests are stable. Do you think you could come by and see her tomorrow? She needs a familiar face."
Tanz felt a surge of hope.
"Of course. I'll be there. Thank you, Mom." Tanz replied
The next morning, Tanz arrived at Spinelia's apartment, his heart light for the first time in days. He had ingredients for a nourishing soup, ready to finally talk to her. But when he let himself in, the silence was different.
It wasn't the heavy silence of her sleeping; it was the hollow silence of an empty home.
He didn't know she was at the hospital again, not for her blood this time, but for her mind—sitting in a cold office, talking to a psychiatrist about the suffocating and the spirals.
Tanz didn't just wait. He went to work. He cleaned her room, picking up the discarded clothes and straightening the pillows she had used to hide from the world.
He went to the kitchen and simmered a pot of soup, the steam filling the small space with a warmth that felt out of place.
Before leaving, he tore a piece of paper from a notebook and wrote in his messy, hurried script:
"Call me if you're home, okay? I'm sorry.."
He left the note by the soup and walked out, feeling like he was leaving a part of his soul behind.
Meanwhile, Spinelia returned. She walked past the soup, past the clean room, and crawled back into her bed. She stared at the ceiling, the psychiatrist's words echoing in her head.