Sarah Maxwell stirred in her bed, her body complaining with a dull ache as if rebelling against the idea of starting the day. The weight of her fatigue pressed down on her chest, a stark reminder that sleep was no longer the refuge it once was. The pain from her illness had grown more persistent in the past few months, turning every night into a restless battle. This morning felt heavier than usual, and the looming video appointment with her doctor wasn't helping her nerves.
Next to her on the bed, Fifer, her tabby cat, stretched with feline grace before nuzzling his head against her arm, his purrs a gentle hum in the quiet of the morning. Sarah rubbed his head, the familiar gesture offering a moment of comfort. "Hey, Fife, you ready for breakfast?" she whispered, her voice scratchy from disuse.
Fifer meowed in response, bounding off the bed and onto the cold floor with a level of enthusiasm Sarah wished she could muster. With a small sigh, Sarah got up, wincing as the cold floor sent a chill up her legs. Her apartment was tiny but cozy, cluttered with mismatched furniture and little knickknacks that had somehow made it feel like home. Fifer was already winding around her feet, making it clear who ran the place.
In the kitchen, she got her coffee brewing, the rich smell filling the air and bringing some sense of routine. The soft hiss of the coffee maker and the noise from the street below provided a familiar soundtrack as Sarah looked out the window. She watched the neighborhood wake up—kids running to school, backpacks bouncing, and dogs barking in the distance. Life carried on, even when hers seemed to be in limbo.
As she sipped her coffee, letting the warmth seep into her hands, Sarah's thoughts drifted back to the past 13 months, which felt endless and fleeting. It had begun with dizziness, a sensation that at first seemed inconsequential. She'd thought maybe it was just stress, or perhaps she was coming down with mild flu. But the dizziness persisted, gradually accompanied by a creeping loss of balance, as if the ground beneath her had turned to water. It was unnerving, yet she hoped it would pass.
Instead, it grew worse. The loss of balance became more than just a small inconvenience. Each day felt like a struggle. Each day felt harder. Sarah's body wasn't cooperating. She felt weak all over, and her legs barely supported her. Simple things exhausted her, even just standing or walking to the kitchen. Some days, it felt like things would never change. Maybe she would never walk again.
Fear crept in whenever she tried to stay hopeful. Her doctor would request more tests, each one would lead to more questions. And the trips to the emergency room became regular, the sterile walls and buzzing lights only adding to her anxiety. Every visit left her more exhausted and unsure.
Sarah's recovery was slow, and every day felt like a test. At first, she thought things might improve, but they never did. Walking had become hard, and her legs didn't feel strong anymore. Sometimes, it felt like they weren't even hers. Even simple things—standing up, walking to the kitchen—took everything she had. The worst part was not knowing if it would get any better.
Therapy sessions weren't much easier. They left her feeling worn out, both in her body and her mind. The physical therapist would push her to do things she didn't think she could, and sometimes, the smallest movements felt like victories. But the fear was always there—always that worry that one wrong move could set her back.
Being sick had also pushed her into isolation. She couldn't be around other people like she used to. Her immune system was weak, so crowds and public spaces were off-limits. Work, which had once been a way to stay connected, was now remote. At home, Sarah was alone most of the time. The walls of her apartment felt smaller each day. Even the things that once gave her comfort—books, music, or her favorite shows—no longer seemed to help.
From her window, she watched the world go by. Kids were running around outside, and the noise of their laughter seemed so far away. She used to feel part of that life—the freedom to leave the house, to walk around without thinking about her health. Now, that life felt like a memory, a different version of her that she couldn't touch anymore.
The phone rang, pulling Sarah out of her thoughts. It was Rene, her best friend from high school.
"Hey, Ray," Sarah said, trying to sound livelier than she felt.
"Good morning, Sarah! How's the queen of solitude doing?" Rene's voice was full of cheer.
Sarah tried to force a smile, hoping her friend would catch in through the phone. "Just taking it one day at a time," she said.
Rene wasn't buying it. "What's really going on?"
Sarah exhaled slowly. "I've got that appointment today and will find out if I can go back to work. So, we'll see. To be honest, I don't think I'm ready."
Rene softened. "It's okay to feel nervous, Sarah. Take it slow. Don't rush."
They kept talking, and by the end, Sarah felt a bit lighter. The day still seemed heavy, but the chat had helped.
Then, the doorbell rang. Sarah checked her security app and saw Michael's face grinning back at her.
"Hey, sis!" Michael called out as Sarah opened the door, pulling her into a bear hug. "Long time no see!"
She smiled and returned the hug, feeling a wave of comfort. "Hey, Michael." His presence was a relief—his laughter, his energy, always seemed to fill up the room.
"I brought bagels," Michael said, holding up a brown bag. "Your favorite—bagels with cream cheese and orange juice."
Sarah's eyes lit up. She hadn't had bagels in a while. "You always know how to make my day," she said as she took one from the bag.
They sat at the kitchen table, and Michael launched into a story about a camping trip that had gone totally sideways, a rogue squirrel stealing his trail mix and a surprise storm flooding his tent. Sarah laughed so hard her sides ached, the sound filling the room. For a moment, it was as if the weight of the last year lifted, and the cracks in her heart didn't feel quite as deep
As they ate, Michael glanced around the apartment. "This place needs some color," he said. "Why don't we go to the art fair this weekend? There's this artist I know who does amazing landscapes. Might be nice to get something for these bare walls."
Sarah hesitated. "I don't know. I'm not sure I'm ready to be out in a crowd again."
"No pressure," Michael said, with his usual easy smile. "But if you change your mind, I'll be there. We can grab tacos and check out the art."
The thought of being out of the house, doing something normal, was tempting. "I'll think about it," Sarah said, her tone soft but thoughtful. "Maybe," she replied cautiously, not wanting to commit to anything.
"Hey, no pressure," Michael said, his tone easygoing. "But if you change your mind, I'll be there. We can grab some food truck tacos, check out the art, and maybe even find you a new piece for your wall. What do you say?"
The idea of tacos and art made her smile. A gentle - and delicious - reminder of the life she had been pulled out of and that was waiting for her outside of her apartment. She didn't feel ready to jump back into life completely, but with Michael... she could take a small step forward. "I'll think about it," she said, her voice soft but with a hint of hope. The future still felt uncertain, but it seemed manageable with family around. Shaking her head as she considered her brother's playful proposal. She stood up and filled her cup with more coffee. Her brother watched her with a smile, hiding his concerns. His eyes watched her every move, noting the hesitation with each step after re-learning to walk. As her big brother, he spent his life wanting to protect her and struggled with her recovery. Wanting to help her but not being able to – not knowing how to.
"Michael!" Sarah called sternly, interrupting his wandering thoughts.
He blinked, the warmth of the present rushing back to his awareness. "Yes?" he replied, trying to regain his composure.
Sarah chuckled, a low, soft sound. "Where were you just now?" she asked, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She was well acquainted with his habit of drifting into his thoughts, especially when memories took him back to their childhood.
Michael rubbed the back of his neck, a bit awkwardly. 'Just thinking about when Mom made me take you to the park.' His grin faded as the worry in his eyes lingered. "You remember? I was so mad because I had plans, but you were so excited, skipping the street like you'd just won the lottery."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "Oh, I remember. You were furious that I was cramping your style with your 'super cool teenage friends, and that girl!.'" She imitated air quotes with her fingers, and Michael laughed, a genuine sound that eased the tension in the room.
"You ran into the street," he said softly. "I never told you, but I was scared. I thought I might lose you." He touched the scar on his hand, the one from when he pushed her out of the way to avoid a car. The car did miss her but grazed his left arm and hand just as it brushed past him.
Sarah's smile faded into a softer expression. She thought back to the day, the memory of Michael yelling at her when she ran into the street still fresh. "I was so scared, I couldn't stop crying," she said, her eyes growing distant as the fear of that moment came rushing back.
"But you carried me home. You were the best big brother." A small smile appeared on her face. "That scar... it's from that day, right?"
Michael nodded, rubbing the scar on his hand. "Yeah. It's a reminder to look out for the people I care about."
His gaze softened as he looked at Sarah. "I know it's been hard. I wish there was more I could have done."
Sarah squeezed his hand gently. "You're doing just fine, Michael. Having you here means everything. You don't need to fix everything—I'm just glad you're here."
Michael smiled, glancing down at Fifer attempting to break the tension, before shifting the conversation. "So, tacos. What do you think?"
Sarah tapped her chin thoughtfully, then smirked. "I don't know... I'm not sure I can handle your singing with the mariachi band again. Remember last time? They almost kicked us out."
Michael laughed; his voice warm. "Hey, I was just supporting the band! Fine, I'll keep it low-key this time. So, we're on for next weekend?"
Sarah's smile brightened just a bit. "Yeah, we're on," she said, her voice lighter. "But, no tequila this time, okay? I don't think I'm ready for another salsa disaster like 2020."
Michael groaned, covering his face with his hands. "You promised never to bring that up again!" he said, but his laughter betrayed him. "Fine, no tequila. I'll stick to orange juice."
Sarah smiled at the moment with Michael, feeling a sense of relief, a brief escape from the constant worry. It was a small thing, but it helped—just a moment of normalcy.
Michael's laughter faded, and he looked at her with a more serious expression. "So, what time is your doctor's appointment?" He joined her at the kitchen table, his coffee cup held out in silent request for a refill.
"Eleven," she answered quietly, topping off his cup. She glanced at the clock, feeling the seconds slip away.
"You nervous?" Michael asked, his eyes searching her face for a hint of how she was feeling.
Sarah nodded, her lips tight, the weight of her uncertainty heavy. The thought of what the doctor might say gnawed at her, a constant, silent anxiety that never fully went away. Michael set his cup down and pulled her into a hug. His arms were warm and firm, offering a sense of security.
"You've been through a lot," he said gently. "No matter what happens, you've made it this far. It's going to be okay."
Sarah let herself relax for a moment, resting her head against him. The comfort of his presence helped ease the tension in her shoulders.
Michael rubbed Sarah's back gently, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles. "Whatever happens, I'm here," he said, his words simple but steady. In that moment, they were all she needed."
They stood there in silence for a moment. Finally, Sarah pulled back, wiping a tear from her cheek. She gave him a small but steady smile. "Okay," she said softly.
Michael grinned at her, his playful tone breaking the quiet. "Is my little sister crying?"
Sarah rolled her eyes, but a chuckle escaped her. "Maybe just a little," she said, her voice lighter. She returned to the table, and Michael joined her, his presence filling the room as they finished breakfast.
Before leaving, Michael reminded her about Sunday dinner at their parent's house, which had become a special tradition since her illness. He pulled her into another hug, giving her shoulders a reassuring squeeze before heading out so she could get ready for her appointment.