Chapitre Trois

The Next Morning — I woke up early, far earlier than my body wanted. My alarm buzzed at 6:00 a.m., and for a few seconds, I just lay there staring at the ceiling. My muscles protested, my throat felt dry, and the weight of responsibility settled back into place like a familiar companion.

But I had somewhere to be.

I dressed quickly—jeans, a plain shirt, and a light jacket—and tied my hair back. I grabbed the envelope of hospital bills from the table, placed it in my bag, and headed out.

The jeepney ride was quiet. Morning sun streamed through the open windows, warming my face as I leaned against the metal bar, clutching my bag against my chest.

I got off near St. Paul’s Memorial hospital and walked toward the entrance, the disinfectant smell greeting me the moment I stepped inside. The halls were bright, sterile, and busy with nurses rushing between stations.

I made my way to the pediatric oncology ward.

Room 312.

I knocked softly before pushing the door open.

Aisen was sitting up in bed, headphones on, watching something on his phone. He looked thinner than last week. His cheeks were hollow, and dark circles clung under his eyes. But the moment he saw me, he smiled—a small, tired smile that still managed to warm my chest.

“Ate,” he greeted. “You came early.”

“Of course,” I said, forcing a cheerful tone. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Better than yesterday. Dr. Ramirez said I might be able to walk around the hallway.”

“That’s good,” I said.

I sat down beside him, placing my bag on the small table.

He pulled off his headphones.

“Did you work again last night?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “The restobar was busy.”

He looked at me for a long moment—too long for someone his age.

“Ate… you should rest.”

“I will,” I lied. “Don’t worry about me.”

He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his eyes.

A nurse came in to check his IV line, and I stepped aside, folding my arms across my chest. As I watched her adjust his medication, the truth settled heavily in my stomach. Then she gave him a warm smile before turning to me.

“You’re his sister, right? "

"Yes." I nodded

"Dr. Ramirez will finish rounds in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said.

When she left, I pulled out a small container from my bag. “I brought lugaw.”

Aisen’s eyes lit up faintly. “You made it?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I bought it downstairs.”

He laughed weakly. “Still good.”

As he ate, I watched him—small movements, tired eyes, forced strength. A child trying to fight something much bigger than him. And I, trying to hold everything together.

When he finished, I helped him lie down again. He stared at the ceiling.

“Ate… you didn’t sleep much again, did you?” he asked when he saw me yawning.

“I slept enough.”

“You lie the same way you sing—too smoothly.”

I chuckled. “Since when did you become a critic?”

He closed his eyes. “Just… don’t get sick, okay? I don’t want you working too much.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m fine, Aisen.”

He opened his eyes and stared at me. He didn’t argue, but the worry in his gaze said he didn’t believe me.

A knock sounded on the door. The doctor entered, clipboard in hand.

“Good morning. I'm Dr. Ramirez, I have the latest results of his treatment,” he said gently. “Can we talk for a moment?”

I nodded and followed him outside the room.

The hallway felt even colder now.

The doctor took a breath, eyes sympathetic. “The treatment is helping, but it's very slow. We’ll need another cycle soon. Possibly two.”

My chest tightened. “How soon?”

“As soon as possible,” he replied. “We can discuss payment plans with the billing department.”

I thanked him, even though my hands felt numb.

Another cycle.

I don’t even know which of the three worries should weigh on me the most—covering the hospital bills, finding some extra work, or, above all, whether my brother’s body can handle it.

When I stepped back into the room, Aisen turned his head toward me.

“What did the doctor say?”

I smiled. Soft. Steady.

Lying, because the truth would crush him.

“He said you’re getting better.”

Aisen smiled back, relieved. I sat beside him again, holding his hand gently.

The room was dim, the only light coming from the small lamp beside Aisen’s bed. He had finished his morning meds, and the nurse reminded him to rest.

I sat beside him, watching as his breathing slowly steadied, his eyes blinking heavier each minute.

He looked small.

Too small.

fourteen years old shouldn’t look this fragile.

I brushed his hair back gently. “Sleep now, Aisen. I’ll be here.”

“Okay…” he whispered. “Ate… don’t forget to eat later… promise?”

“I promise.”

His eyes finally closed, and within minutes, he drifted into a quiet sleep.

My phone buzzed.

I checked the screen.

Arzhel: Did you get there safe?

I texted back quickly, careful not to wake Aisen.

Me: Yes. He’s resting now.

A second message came in almost instantly.

Arzhel: How is he?

**Me:**Tired… but fighting.

There was a long pause before his reply.

Arzhel: And you?

My fingers hesitated.

**Me:**I’m okay.

He replied within seconds—because he knew I wasn’t.

Arzhel: Text me if you need anything, Auren. Anything, okay?

Before I could respond, my alarm rang—soft and short.

One hour left.

Then I had to leave for my café shift.

I packed my things quietly. Aisen was still asleep, the machines beeping steadily. Before stepping out, I pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Stay strong, Aisen,” I whispered. “I’ll take care of everything.”

I opened the door quietly.

But before I could take three steps into the hallway—

“Ms. Sylsvayne?”

I turned.

It was Nurse Lina, holding a brown envelope in her hands, her expression apologetic.

“Ma’am, this is the updated billing statement. For the next treatment cycle.”

My stomach knotted instantly.

I accepted the envelope with trembling fingers.

“Is… it urgently needed?” I asked, voice thin.

“Yes,” she replied gently. “They can’t begin the next cycle without partial payment.”

I nodded, swallowing hard. “Thank you.”

When she walked away, I opened the envelope slowly.

And froze.

The number.

The total.

It was—

Three times bigger than the first bill I received.

My knees weakened for a second, but I forced myself upright.

Not here.

Not now.

Aisen can’t see me break.

I folded the papers and slipped them into my bag, pushing down the wave of panic that threatened to choke me.

I had to work.

The bell chimed as I stepped into the café. The rush had already started—students, office workers, people grabbing takeout. My Supervisor handed me an apron before I even clocked in.

“You’re late by two minutes,” she said sharply.

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “The hospital—”

“No excuses. Counter duty. Go.”

I tied the apron around my waist, pushed everything down—fear, exhaustion, worry—and walked to the counter.

“Good afternoon! Welcome to Brew & Bean!”

My voice sounded steady.

My heart was anything but.

Each coffee order blurred into the next. Each customer felt like a wave pushing me further underwater. But quitting wasn’t an option. Slowing down wasn’t an option.

Money.

Bills.

Treatment.

By the time my shift ended, my shoulders ached and my hands were shaking from fatigue. I barely had time to rest before my next job.

I left the café at 7:00 PM, rushing to the hotel restobar.

The restobar lights were already dimmed as I stepped inside. Guests filled the tables—polished shoes, corporate outfits, soft clinks of wine glasses.

As usual, Arzhel was already tuning his guitar.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

I nodded.

He didn’t believe me.

I didn’t expect him to.

We stepped onto the stage.

He strummed the first soft chords.

I took the mic.

And I sang.

Every note felt heavier than the last. My voice stayed steady, but behind every lyric was a weight I couldn’t unload. The applause after each song felt distant, like it was echoing through water.

Still, I kept going.

Because I had to.

After our last set, the manager waved us over.

“Auren, good job tonight,” he said briskly. “Listen—I have something important.”

I wiped sweat from my brow. “Yes, sir?”

“There’s a VVIP guest in one of the private lounges. Very important client. He specifically requested another live performance tonight—your performance.”

I blinked. “Me? Why?”

“He heard you during dinner,” the manager explained. “He wants a private set.”

Beside me, Arzhel stiffened.

The manager continued, “If you accept, I’ll triple your pay for the night. And the guest usually tips very well. It could help you… a lot.”

Triple.

Plus tips.

My heart pounded.

The new hospital bill flashed in my mind.

I needed that money.

Before I could answer, Arzhel stepped forward.

“Sir, can I talk to her for a moment?”

The manager waved dismissively. “Guitarist isn’t needed for this set. The guest wants a solo performance.”