Cheesecake
The scent of lemon polish and sterile white was the wallpaper of Abigail's life. It was a mundane, almost comforting scent, one that had replaced the earthy warmth of her former therapy office and the smell of decent coffee—the smell of a life she used to own. At twenty-one, she knew the inside of the West Wing of St. Jude's better than she knew the layout of her apartment. The illness had moved in first, then packed her bags for her.
She was propped up in her hospital bed, a tangle of IV lines the only things tying her down. The late afternoon sun, filtered through the blinds, striped the room in gold and shadow. In her hands, a worn copy of Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning lay open, spine cracked from years of handling. She hadn't read a word in twenty minutes. Instead, she was admiring the way a dust mote danced in a sunbeam, like a tiny, joyful star—a whole universe in a speck of light.
Abigail wasn't focused on the illness. It was a tiresome roommate, always there, demanding attention. She'd spent too long counting the cost—the canceled sessions, the clients she'd had to hand off, the constant, low-level thrum of fear in her mother's eyes. It was a bizarre twist, really: a therapist who now mostly offered perspective to nurses on their dating lives. Today, she just wanted to watch the dust motes. She was carefree not because she was ignorant of her reality, but because she was keenly aware of the alternative.
A loud, exaggerated sigh pulled her attention away. Sarah, her best and only real friend, was sitting in the ugly blue visitor's chair, tapping furiously on her phone.
"Seriously, Abi, I swear the nurses here communicate entirely through passive-aggressive coughs," Sarah muttered, lowering her phone just enough to give Abigail a dramatic, eye-rolling look. "How did you manage to maintain your sunny disposition counseling people who probably just needed a nap and a better dating profile?"
Abigail chuckled, a dry, rattling sound in her chest. "Empathy, Sarah. And very strong boundaries. And probably a lot of coffee. Plus, some people genuinely just need someone to hold space for them, even if their biggest problem is whether to choose oat or almond milk."
"Don't encourage them." Sarah tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. "Anyway, what big plans for tonight? Another riveting episode of Extreme Makeover: IV Edition?"
"Actually," Abigail said, closing her book with a soft thud. She looked out the window at the distant skyline—a jumble of sharp glass and concrete, full of people rushing, fighting, living. "I'm thinking of ordering the cheesecake. The really bad, sugary one. The nurses hide it in the staff kitchen. It's... it's my revolutionary act for the day."
Sarah grinned, the genuine one that always made Abigail feel anchored. "My girl. Now that's the kind of chaos I can get behind. Let's send Mum out on a decoy mission."
Abigail leaned back against the stiff pillows, a flicker of something like joy rising in her. The irony of her life—a professional navigator suddenly adrift—wasn't lost on her. But she knew the dust motes would keep dancing whether she watched them or not. And for today, that tiny act of defiance—the illicit cheesecake, the laughter with her friend—was enough. Living just the way it is was messy, uncertain, and occasionally, surprisingly sweet.
