Chapter 18 Lila
LILA
I don’t have a big dramatic reinvention story, which is annoying, because if you’re going to run, you’d think you’d at least get a montage and a new wardrobe.
What I have is a smaller city, a smaller apartment, and a name I don’t correct when people say it wrong because correcting them feels like inviting questions.
I have a job that pays on time, a landlord who leaves me alone, and a grocery store where nobody recognizes me and nobody cares what I buy.
I have routines that aren’t exciting but they’re mine, and right now that’s the point.
My phone has a new number, and it lives in silence unless I call someone first. I don’t scroll the old group chat anymore, and I don’t open my email unless I’m ready to see something I didn’t ask for.
I tell myself I’m being smart, not paranoid, and I’m trying to be fair about that distinction because I’m tired of living like my instincts are embarrassing.
I work at a small procurement firm as an analyst, and it’s the kind of place where the printer is always angry, the coffee tastes like burnt regret, and nobody has time for power plays.
My manager wears sneakers with suits and forgets half his meetings, and it’s the first time in years I’ve been able to exist at work without someone else’s intensity in my peripheral vision.
It isn’t glamorous, but it’s stable, and stability is my current personality.
I’m almost seventeen weeks. I know the exact number because once you’ve seen that little line appear, your brain turns into a spreadsheet whether you like it or not.
Some mornings I wake up and I’m calm about it, and other mornings I wake up and I stare at the ceiling and do the math again like the answer might change if I run it twice.
At the office today, by noon, I’ve convinced myself I’m fine, and by one, my body proves I’m a liar.
I’m halfway through a vendor reconciliation when the room narrows, my hearing dulls, and my hands go cold, so I grip the edge of my desk and pretend it’s normal because pretending buys you time.
Malik—the senior analyst, office manager, and my friend—catches it anyway.
He appears at the corner of my desk with his brows drawn and his voice stripped of jokes. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” I say, because I always say that first.
“You’re not.” His eyes drop to my knuckles where they’re white against the laminate. “Sit.”
“I just need water,” I insist, and I try to straighten up, but the tilt gets worse.
“Lila,” he says, sharper, and he points at my chair. “Now.”
I sit, and I hate the relief.
He crouches a little, not in my space, but close enough to keep me from trying to stand again. “You pregnant?”
“Yes,” I admit.
His jaw tightens then relaxes. “Okay. We’re not doing whatever tough-girl thing you’re about to do, and you’re not walking home. I’m taking you to Saint Mercy.”
“I don’t need the hospital,” I say, but my voice is thin.
“You almost passed out at your desk,” he replies. “I’m not letting you fall in the street.”
“I’ll call a cab.”
“You’ll call a cab and then you’ll tell the cab you’re fine, and then you’ll faint in the lobby of your building and crack your head,” Malik says, then he exhales like he’s annoyed at himself for being this invested. “Grab your bag.”
I open my mouth to argue, but my stomach turns and my vision tunnels again, so I close it and do what he says because my pride doesn’t get a vote when my knees feel unreliable.
He walks me out with one hand hovering near my elbow without grabbing, and it’s the kind of restraint that makes me trust him more, which is irritating.
In the car, Malik drives fast without driving stupid, and he keeps glancing over like he’s checking I’m still upright.
“I’m okay,” I say.
“You’re not allowed to say that for the rest of the day,” he replies. “Save your energy.”
I press my forehead to the cool window and breathe until we pull up to Saint Mercy, then Malik kills the engine and gets around to my side before I can pretend I don’t need help.
“I can walk,” I say.
“Good,” he answers. “Do it slowly.”
We make it through the doors. The lobby smells like disinfectant and coffee, the lights are too bright, and my body is already tired.
Malik leans toward intake. “She’s dizzy, she’s pregnant, she almost fainted at work.”
The receptionist starts asking questions, and I try to focus on the words, on the process, on anything that isn’t the rising pressure in my chest.
My ears fill with a soft rush, my hands go numb, and my vision collapses down to a narrow strip.
Malik’s voice cuts through it. “Lila, look at me.”
I try.
My knees unlock without permission.
He catches me before I hit the floor, his arm firm around my back, his other hand braced at my shoulder, and I hear him swearing as he calls for help.
Then everything cuts out.
When I come back, I’m staring at ceiling tiles, and there’s a cuff on my arm, and there’s an IV in my hand, and my mouth tastes dry.
A nurse stands at the foot of the bed with a tablet, she looks up when I move, and she smiles like this happens every hour.
“Hey,” she says. “Welcome back. Don’t sit up fast.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” I mutter, then I swallow, because my throat feels tight.
“You fainted in the lobby,” she continues, still calm. “You’re stable. We’re running labs. You’re getting fluids.”
“Great,” I say, because sarcasm is my comfort object.
She checks the monitor and writes something down. “How far along?”
“Seventeen weeks,” I answer, and saying it out loud makes my stomach drop again because it means time has passed and I’ve been pretending it didn’t.
She nods once. “Any bleeding, pain, shortness of breath, chest pain?”
“No,” I say. “Just dizzy.”
“Okay,” she replies. “Your friend is still here. Do you want him to come back?”
“Yes,” I say immediately.
The nurse steps out, and Malik appears a second later with his jaw clenched and his eyes sharp.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he says, and he drags the visitor chair closer like he’s claiming his spot.
“I didn’t schedule it,” I say.
“I know,” he replies, and his voice drops. “You went down, and your eyes rolled back, and I panicked.”
I manage a small smile. “You did fine.”
He exhales through his nose, then he glances at the IV. “They say you’re okay?”
“They say I’m dehydrated and my blood pressure is low,” I answer. “My body is being dramatic.”
He shakes his head. “Drink water.”
“I do.”
“No,” he says. “Drink water like you mean it.”
A doctor comes in not long after, older, tired, and direct, and her badge reads PATEL.
She introduces herself, checks my chart, and asks the same questions, then she taps the tablet twice.
“Your vitals improved with fluids,” Dr. Patel says, “but your labs show you’re dehydrated enough that I’m not comfortable sending you home today, and your potassium is low.”
I stare at her. “Low how.”
“Not dangerous,” she replies, “but low enough to correct and observe. You’re pregnant, you fainted in the lobby, and I’d rather be cautious.”
Malik shifts beside me, his knee bouncing once.
Dr. Patel looks at me again. “Do you have someone who can stay with you overnight if we discharge you later?”
“I’m fine,” I say, because my mouth is still loyal to the lie.
“You fainted in a public lobby,” she replies, still calm. “That’s not fine.”
“I have a friend,” I say, and I glance at Malik.
Malik lifts his brows. “I can drop her home,” he says. “I can’t stay overnight.”
Dr. Patel nods as if she expected that. “Understood. Another question. Our system shows an emergency contact. Do you want us to call them for discharge planning, or do you want to decline and sign that you’re leaving against advice if you insist on going home alone?”
My stomach tightens. “Don’t call him.”
Dr. Patel’s expression doesn’t change, but her voice gets firmer. “Then you’re staying overnight for observation.”
I open my mouth to argue, then I feel my pulse in my throat and I realize I’m too tired to win this fight.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll stay.”
“Good,” Dr. Patel replies, and she makes a note. “We’ll move you upstairs shortly. You’ll get potassium repletion, more fluids, and monitoring. If anything changes, we escalate.”
She steps out.
Malik leans closer, voice low. “You okay?”
“No,” I admit, and it comes out rough.
He nods once, and he looks at me the way people look when they want to help but don’t know how without crossing a line. “Do you want me to call someone for you?”
I shake my head too fast. “No.”
“Lila,” he says, careful. “You fainted. You’re pregnant. You don’t get to do this alone just because you’re good at disappearing.”
My hands curl under the blanket. “I’m not disappearing.”
“You did,” he replies, then he softens. “I’m not judging you. I’m saying you look scared.”
I stare at the sheet because looking at him makes me feel too seen.
He exhales. “Okay. I’m going to stay until they move you upstairs, and then I’m going to go, but I need you to tell me one thing.”
“What.”
“Are you safe?” There’s no gossip in it, there’s only concern.
My throat tightens. I should say yes because it’s easy, and I should say no because it’s true, but the truth is complicated and I’m tired.
“I am,” I say finally. It’s not the full truth, but it’s the truth I can manage. “I will be.”
Malik studies me then nods. “Text me when you’re settled upstairs,” he says. “And drink water.”
“I hate you,” I tell him.
He snorts. “Sure.”
A transport tech comes in, and they move me to a quieter room upstairs. Malik stays through it, then he stands at the doorway like he’s trying to decide if leaving is the right thing.
“You’re sure you’re good?” he asks again.
I nod. “Go home.”
He holds my gaze another second. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll check my phone.”
“Don’t,” I warn.
He smiles once. “Too late.”
He leaves, and the room gets still.
I’m alone for ten minutes, and I’m trying to breathe through the nausea and the anger and the humiliation, then my nurse comes back with another bag of fluids and an annoyed look.