You're Making Me Crazy, Professor

Chapter 46

"Wala ata si Miss Sanchez ngayon. It's been one hour," one of my classmates said, checking her watch with a frown.

I was already sitting in the classroom at the university, but my mind was everywhere else.

It's been an hour since class was supposed to start, and still, there was no sign of Cynthia. She's never late.

In fact, she's always early-always so punctual, like clockwork. So this... this wasn't normal.

Not at all.

"Baka may nangyari sa bebe mo, Syl," Kinsley teased from the seat in front of me, turning around with a smirk.

I didn't even respond. I couldn't. My hands were already reaching for my phone. I opened our messages and quickly typed.

Are you okay? Why aren't you here yet?

Sent.

I stared at the screen, waiting for the small "seen" mark to appear. Nothing. No reply either.

Please reply. I'm getting worried.

Sent again.

Still nothing. My chest was starting to tighten. The kind of nervousness that coils in your stomach and makes it hard to breathe. I checked my phone again. Still no notification, no reply, no sign of her.

Cynthia, please. Tell me you're okay.

Do you want me to come to your house? Are you there?

I can't calm down. Please respond.

Message after message, I kept sending them like a prayer, hoping that one of them would finally get her attention. But she wasn't replying. Not even a single word. The silence on the other end was deafening.

I stood up suddenly, my chair scraping against the floor. A few heads turned toward me.

"Hoy, saan ka pupunta?" Kinsley asked, eyebrows furrowed at my sudden movement.

"Something urgent happened. Please tell the prof I'm excused," I said quickly, not giving her time to ask more. I grabbed my bag and rushed out of the room.

My footsteps echoed through the hallway. People greeted me as I passed by, familiar faces smiling and waving, but I couldn't bring myself to look at any of them. I just walked faster. My thoughts were racing and the worst-case scenarios started flooding my head.

What if something happened to her? What if she was hurt? What if she collapsed and no one was there?

I made it to the parking lot, unlocked my car, and got in. The moment I turned the engine on, I called her again. Still no answer. It kept ringing. That made it worse somehow. The fact that her phone was active meant it was with her... so why the hell wasn't she answering?

I pressed harder on the gas, weaving through traffic as quickly and safely as I could. I needed to get to her house. Now.

When I finally pulled up outside, I didn't even bother checking my appearance or calming down. I rushed to the gate and rang the doorbell several times.

Nothing.

"Miss?" I called, banging on the gate lightly. "Cynthia?"

Still no answer. My heart pounded even harder. I pushed the gate-thank God it wasn't locked-and stepped inside. Everything was too quiet. Unsettlingly quiet.

I walked to the front door, tried the knob-it was unlocked too. I stepped inside, calling out again.

"Miss? Cynthia?"

No one answered. The house felt cold, lifeless, like no one had been moving inside for hours. I went through the living room. Empty. Kitchen. Empty. Office. Still empty.

I hurried upstairs, calling her name louder now, panic rising in my chest.

I reached her bedroom and pushed the door open. "Cynthia?"

But she wasn't there.

I turned around, quickly making my way to the guest room, the bathroom, anywhere she could be.

Nothing.

Then I called her phone again, and this time... I heard it. A faint ringing, coming from her bedroom. I ran back, following the sound. Her phone was there on the bedside table-screen lighting up, my name flashing on it-but she wasn't.

"Fuck," I whispered under my breath, fear now full-blown in my chest. "Where the hell are you, Cynthia?"

And still-nothing.

Something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones.

The second I pushed that bathroom door open, my world collapsed.

There she was-Cynthia-crumpled on the cold tile floor, her back against the bathtub, her head tilted awkwardly to the side.

And blood.

Blood was smeared at the corner of her lips, dripping slowly down her chin like something out of a nightmare.

Her eyes were shut, her breathing so shallow I could barely see her chest move.

"CYNTHIA!" I screamed, falling to my knees so fast I didn't even feel the pain. My hands found her face, trembling uncontrollably as I touched her cold skin. "Cynthia, no-hey, wake up-wake up!"

Her body was limp. Lifeless.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought I'd throw up. I grabbed her hand, clutching it tight. "Please," I whispered, "don't do this to me. Please."

I was shaking as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone. I didn't even consider calling an ambulance-not when I knew someone better. Someone I could trust with her life.

With trembling fingers, I dialed Dr. Andres Villareal's number. The call barely rang once before he picked up.

"Sylvia?"

"Doc," I gasped, barely able to speak. "Please, I need you. Cynthia-she's unconscious. There's blood... from her mouth. I found her in her bathroom. She's not waking up-please come. Come now."

There was a pause, then his voice turned firm, urgent. "Send me her location. I'll be there in ten. Don't try to move her. Just keep her breathing."

I sent the pin without thinking and tossed my phone beside me. My hands were on her face again, brushing the hair away, wiping at the blood with my sleeve like it would somehow fix everything.

"You're okay," I whispered to her. "You're gonna be okay. I called Doc Villareal. He's the best. Please stay."

I pressed my forehead against hers. Her skin was cold and clammy. I could still feel her pulse-weak and thready, but there. And that gave me hope. A little. Enough.

I sat there on the floor of her bathroom, her head resting against my shoulder, one hand gripping hers like I'd lose her if I let go. The silence around us was heavy, suffocating. Every minute felt like a lifetime.

Tears slipped down my face, but I didn't even bother wiping them away. "You can't do this to me," I whispered. "You're not allowed to. I haven't even told you-" My voice cracked. "-I haven't even told you how much you mean to me."

Then, finally, I heard it.

Tires screeching outside. Doors slamming. Footsteps running up the porch.

I let out a shaky breath, pressing a kiss to her temple.

"Hold on, Cynthia," I whispered. "Help's here."

The front door burst open.

"Sylvia!" I heard Dr. Villareal's voice echo through the house, sharp and commanding. "Where is she?"

"Up here! Bathroom-second door to the left!" I yelled, my voice raw.

In seconds, he appeared in the doorway with his black medical bag already in hand, followed by his nurse, Clara, close behind. He took one look at Cynthia and dropped to his knees beside us.

"Step back, Sylvia," he said gently but firmly.

I hesitated, still holding onto her hand like letting go would mean losing her. But I forced myself to move aside, pressing my back to the bathroom wall as he started checking her vitals. Clara began pulling out equipment, moving with terrifying speed and precision.

"Pulse is weak," he muttered, pulling down his stethoscope. "She's cold. Clara, prepare a glucose shot-get her on the IV."

"Right away."

My nails dug into my palms as I watched. He tilted her head gently to the side, inspecting her mouth, wiping away the blood I couldn't bring myself to clean earlier.

We carefully laid her down on her bed. Her skin was pale, lips tinged with blue. It didn't look like her-it didn't feel like her.

Dr. Villareal worked quickly, his movements sure and quiet. Clara set up the IV stand with practiced hands, inserting the needle into Cynthia's arm. I stood near the foot of the bed, frozen, eyes locked on Cynthia's face as if just staring would wake her up.

"BP is still low," Clara said, reading the monitor. "Pulse is irregular."

"She's dehydrated and her oxygen saturation's dropping," Dr. Villareal muttered, placing the stethoscope to her chest again. He lingered longer this time, frowning.

"What is it?" I asked, stepping forward.

He didn't answer right away. Just quietly reached into his bag, pulled out a small portable oxygen tank and nasal cannula, and began adjusting it onto her. I watched the way his hands moved-precise but tense.

"Doc," I pressed, my voice tight. "What's wrong with her?"

He finally looked up at me. Calm eyes, unreadable expression. "Her lungs aren't functioning the way they should. It might be a temporary infection or inflammation. Could be stress, or a reaction to medication-if she's taking anything."

"She never mentioned anything," I said quietly. "And if she was sick, she'd tell me."

He glanced at Cynthia, then back at me. "Some people keep things to themselves," he said carefully. "Especially the things that scare them."

The words sank into my chest like lead.

"Doc," I said, this time quieter. "Is it something serious?"

There was a pause-long, heavy, and full of things he didn't say.

"I'm not certain yet," he said finally. "There are... signs that suggest something deeper. But I won't say anything until I've done more tests. She needs rest right now, Sylvia. That's the only thing I'm sure of."

That stung. And terrified me.

She lay there, eyes shut, her chest rising in slow, shallow breaths. The oxygen tube that curved around her face looked so pale-so wrong-on her. Like it didn't belong. Like this didn't belong.

"Please wake up," I whispered, my voice breaking as I held her hand against my cheek. "Just once. Just open your eyes."

She didn't respond. Her body remained still, fragile against the sea of pillows and bedsheets that used to smell like her perfume-lavender and something soft.

Behind me, Dr. Villareal was checking the monitor again. The soft beeping was the only thing keeping me from screaming. That sound meant she was still here. Still fighting. Still breathing.

But it wasn't enough.

"Her breathing's still shallow," he said, almost to himself. "Clara, note the rhythm pattern. Let's keep the O2 level steady for now."

I turned to him. "Why isn't she waking up? You said she was stable-she looks worse."

"She's unconscious, not comatose," he replied carefully. "Her vitals are holding. Her body is just... recovering from something. We still don't know what that something is."

I hated how calm he sounded. Like this wasn't tearing me apart.

"What do you think it is?" I asked, standing. "Don't sugarcoat it, Doc. I need to know what you're not telling me."

He looked at me then, his eyes meeting mine-serious, steady, and careful.

"I've seen symptoms like this before," he said slowly. "But it's too early to speculate. There are signs, yes. But without tests, I won't say something that might not be true."

"But if you're thinking it's something serious-"

"It could be," he said, cutting me off gently. "But there's no diagnosis without proof. What I do know is that she's not in immediate danger anymore. Her vitals are stable enough to monitor here. That's what we focus on right now."

That wasn't good enough.

I looked back at her-this version of her that looked nothing like the woman who used to argue with me over which playlist to use on long drives. This wasn't Cynthia. This was a shell. A sleeping ghost.

I sat back down, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

"I should've known something was wrong," I whispered. "All those nights she said she was 'just tired.' How many times did I believe her because I wanted to?"

"Whatever this is, Sylvia," he said after a moment, "it didn't start today. It's been happening for a while."

I reached for her hand again and held it tight, leaning close.

"You don't get to go through this alone," I whispered against her skin. "I don't care what you're hiding... I'm staying. Even if you won't let me in, I'm not leaving."

And still-Cynthia didn't move.

But her fingers remained curled around mine.

Weak. But still there.

He patted my shoulder lightly before stepping away. "Keep an eye on her. I'll be downstairs. Call me if anything changes."

Clara quietly left the room, giving us space. Dr. Villareal lingered near the door, watching.

When the door shut behind them, I pulled the chair closer and sat by her side, reaching for her hand again. I ran my thumb across her fingers, gently.

"Cynthia..." I whispered. "What are you hiding from me?"

---

I didn't realize I had fallen asleep. My head was resting near her side, one hand still clutching hers. My eyes were puffy, my cheeks damp-I hadn't even noticed I was crying until I woke up.

What stirred me wasn't a sound, but a feeling-fingers, soft and familiar, gently brushing against my face.

I blinked groggily, my vision adjusting, and found her eyes open-tired, yes, but looking at me.

"Cynthia," I breathed out, immediately sitting up straighter. "Are you okay now? What happened? Are you feeling okay? Does anything hurt?"

She didn't answer right away. Just smiled weakly and ran her thumb across my cheek, wiping away what was left of my tears.

"Did you cry?" she asked, voice soft and hoarse-barely above a whisper.

My throat tightened.

"You made me worry," I said, trying not to choke on my own words. "I was worried. Bakit ka ganyan? Why didn't you say anything? Why did you let it get this bad?"

"I'm sorry..." she whispered, eyes heavy. "I'm okay now. I was just tired."

"Tired?" I repeated, shaking my head in disbelief. "You call that tired? Cynthia, you were unconscious! You were-" My voice cracked again. "I thought I lost you."

She looked away, her gaze drifting to the IV tube attached to her arm. "I didn't mean to scare you..."

"Well, you did. You scared the hell out of me," I said, voice trembling. "You didn't reply. You didn't call. You didn't even tell me you weren't coming to class. Do you know what that did to me?"

"I thought I could handle it," she murmured. "I didn't want to worry you."

I laughed bitterly. "So instead, you decided to collapse alone in your bathroom?"

She didn't respond.

"I would've been there," I said. "If you just told me. I would've dropped everything in a heartbeat."

"I know," she whispered.

"Then why didn't you?"

Her eyes met mine again, and in them, I saw something raw. Fragile. Like glass about to break.

"Because if you saw me like this... you'd look at me differently."

I stared at her, stunned into silence.

"You always see me as this strong, in-control, unstoppable version of myself. And I wanted to keep it that way. I didn't want you to see me weak."

I took her hand again, brought it to my lips, kissed her knuckles.

"I don't care if you're weak," I said. "I don't care if you're tired, or sick, or falling apart. You don't have to be strong all the time, not with me. I want all of you, Cynthia. Even the messy, vulnerable parts."

Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away but one slipped down her cheek.

"I'm scared, Sylvia," she admitted quietly.

"I'm here, you don't have to be scared. You can tell me everything, mhm, okay?" I said reassuring her.

"I've been feeling weak, but it's just because I'm tired. I need rest."

Tired? Gusto ko sanang tanungin kung anong nangyayari sa kanya. Kasi alam ko, hindi lang 'to simpleng pagod. May mas malalim pa dito. I can feel it-yung bigat sa mga mata niya, yung paraan ng pagsagot niya na parang laging may tinatago, at yung mga ngiti niya na hindi na umaabot sa mata.

Gusto ko siyang tanungin: "Ano bang tinatago mo sa akin? Bakit parang ang layo mo na kahit andiyan ka lang?" Pero natatakot ako. Natatakot akong baka may marinig akong hindi ko kayang tanggapin. Natatakot akong baka hindi pa siya handang magsalita.

"Do you want a hug? Cuddle?" I asked her instead and she nodded gently.

I shifted closer on the bed, wrapping my arms gently around Cynthia, careful not to disturb the IV line or the oxygen tube.

The moment our bodies touched, I felt her melt into me-like all the tension she'd been holding onto finally gave way. I pulled the blanket over us, tucking it around her shoulders, slow and gentle, like if I moved too fast she might break.

She rested her head against my chest, her fingers curling into my shirt like she was afraid I'd disappear.

"This okay?" I whispered, my lips brushing the top of her hair.

"Mhm," she breathed, soft and warm.

"You could've had this sooner if you didn't almost die to get it," I murmured, trying to keep my voice light, even though my heart still ached.

"I didn't mean to," she said quietly, pressing her cheek more firmly against me. "I just... kept pushing. Thought if I ignored it long enough, it would go away."

"And now?" I asked.

She hesitated.

I kissed her temple gently. "You don't have to be perfect, you know. Not with me. You don't have to carry everything by yourself."

She didn't respond, but I felt her exhale against my chest. A long, tired breath, like she'd been holding it in for weeks. Maybe she had.

I let one hand run slowly through her hair, brushing it away from her face, smoothing it down with every pass. The room was quiet except for the soft beeping of the monitor beside us, and for the first time all day, I felt like I could finally breathe.

"Will you stay?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

I didn't even think. "Of course. I'm not going anywhere."

She smiled-just barely-and her eyes fluttered shut again. But it wasn't like earlier. This wasn't the same kind of sleep. It wasn't unconsciousness, or fear, or collapse.

This was rest.

Real rest.

She was safe now. Safe with me.

I held her tighter, my heart still fragile from everything I'd just gone through, but steadier with every breath she took.

I leaned in close, whispering into her hair, "You're not losing me. No matter what this is."

"And please, stop making me worry. Please. I can't bear with it."

She didn't say anything at first. Just lay there against me, breathing slowly, like every inhale was still a little difficult-but easier now with someone to share the weight.

"I'm sorry," she murmured again, voice rough from the dryness in her throat. "I should've told you sooner."

"You should've," I whispered, pressing my cheek against the top of her head. "But I'm not mad. I just... I was terrified, Cynthia. I thought I was too late."

She shifted slightly, adjusting her arm around my waist. "You weren't. You're never too late."

"I don't ever want to be that close to losing you again," I said, my voice barely holding together. "Promise me you'll talk to me next time. About anything. Everything."

"I've always had to be the strong one. Even when I wasn't. Especially when I wasn't."

I nodded slowly, running my fingers through her hair again. "I know. But strength isn't pretending nothing's wrong. It's letting someone stay when everything is wrong. Letting someone love you through it."

She was quiet for a long moment.

Then, with her voice almost too soft to hear: "I don't want you to see me like this and change your mind."

I pulled back just enough to look at her face. Her eyes were tired, but open. Honest. Scared.

"I didn't fall for you because you were perfect," I said gently. "I fell for you because you're real. Stubborn and sarcastic and brilliant-and yes, sometimes reckless and closed off and difficult. But you're you. And that's who I want."

Her eyes shimmered. "Even like this?"

"Especially like this," I whispered, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "Because this is when you need me most."

Her lips trembled into a small, grateful smile, and she exhaled shakily. "You always know what to say."

"That's because I mean it," I replied, brushing my thumb against her cheek. "And because I love you."

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened just a little.

"You... do?"

"I do," I said, heart thudding in my chest. "I've been holding onto that for a while. But almost losing you today? I couldn't keep it in any longer."