Chapter 25 The human red flag has my medication

Chapter 25 The human red flag has my medication
Hazel’s POV- Mom’s place
Thursday, 9:00 a.m.

I woke up the way people do in commercials, stretching slowly, toes pointing, arms floating over my head like I was auditioning for Healthy Teen With No Problems. A yawn slipped out of me, I curled deeper under the blanket, hugging the warmth like it might disappear if I let go.
For the first time since… forever, my body wasn’t screaming.

No fever burned under my skin. No nausea flipped my stomach inside out. No dizziness made the ceiling feel like it was drifting away from me.
Just me. Breathing. Existing.

Before I could overthink it, there was a soft knock on the door. It opened, and my mom stepped in, carefully balancing a plate like it was fragile.
On it: scrambled eggs folded with spinach, turkey bacon stacked neatly to the side, whole-grain toast with avocado, and a small bowl of strawberries. The kind of breakfast influencers pretend they eat every day.

I sat up so fast the blankets slid off my legs.
She eyed me. “Careful. You’ll scare the food.”

I stared at the food, then at her. “Did… did someone important die?”
She snorted. “Eat before I change my mind.”
I grinned weakly. “So this is what happens when I almost passed out in public? I should’ve tried this years ago.”
She set the plate on the nightstand. “Don’t push it. I still know who you are.”

Fair.
I didn’t even pretend to be subtle. I pulled the plate closer, inspecting it like it might vanish if I blinked. Ever since yesterday, my mom had been hovering, she hadn’t left last night, hadn’t rushed out with excuses or half-apologies. Now she was serving me breakfast in bed like I was made of glass.

I should’ve felt grateful. Instead, it made my chest ache.
She noticed the way my eyes lingered. “Relax,” she said dryly. “It’s not poisoned. I didn’t have time.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Super reassuring.”

She chuckled and smoothed my blanket. “So. You’re not going to school today, right?”
I sank back against the pillows, suddenly very comfortable. “Nope. Doctor’s orders. I’m conserving my energy.”
“For what?”
“Being pretty.”
She stared at me. Then: “You’ve been conserving that since birth.”
Rude but accurate.

She fussed for another minute, touched my forehead, adjusted the plate, tucked the blanket like I might float away if she didn’t, then finally left. The door clicked shut behind her, and the room went quiet.

I looked at the food again.
It looked… expensive. Thought-out. Like effort.
The last time she cooked like this, I was nine.

Back then, I thought adults just worked late. I didn’t know what “clients” meant. I didn’t know why other kids’ moms came to school events and mine never did.
I didn’t know why people whispered.
When I did find out, it wasn’t from her. It was from a girl in my class who laughed too loudly and said the word daughter of a whore like it was candy on her tongue.
After that, everything unraveled.

Kids stopped sitting next to me. Hate notes appeared in my locker; crumpled, anonymous. I was shoved in hallways, bumped into “accidentally,” laughed at when I fell. Teachers gave me that uncomfortable side-eye, like my existence was a problem they hadn’t been trained to solve.

I learned quickly not to cry. Crying only made it worse. I learned to eat alone. To keep my head down. And my mom; she was tired. Always tired. Always apologizing later, when the damage had already been done.

My throat tightened. I blinked hard, staring at the plate until the edges blurred.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “Not today.”

I lifted the spoon and took a bite. It was warm. Soft. Perfectly seasoned. Something inside my chest loosened just a little. I ate slowly at first, letting myself feel it, the way the food actually tasted good, the way it filled me instead of just quieting hunger. Then my restraint collapsed and I devoured the rest like it personally offended me.
When I was done, I leaned back and rubbed my stomach. “Okay. That was illegal.”
Now. Reality. Serious mode activated.
I grabbed my journal and pen, sat cross-legged on the bed, and flipped to a blank page.
In bold, dramatic letters, I wrote:

HOW TO GET BACK TO WESTBOURNE CITY AND BE RICH AGAIN
Step one: Find an ice rink. Practice.
I paused.

Tapped the pen. I looked around my tiny room like an ice rink might suddenly reveal itself. Then it hit me. This town didn’t have one. It never had.
I groaned and folded forward, forehead pressing into my knees.
“Oh no, this is bad.”
How was I supposed to practice? How was I supposed to fix the move that ended everything?
The triple Axel–Euler–Salchow combo.

The move that shattered my hip, and my future with it.
I slid off the bed and wrestled my ginger curls into a ponytail, arms burning like I was fighting a wild animal. “Why are you like this?” I hissed at my hair. Finally tied, I shuffled to the far end of my very small room, took a breath, and set my feet. Just one try.

I pushed off, spun－
And missed the landing.
I crashed onto my knees.
“At least I didn’t fall on my butt,” I muttered, trying to stand－

Suddenly pain exploded through my hip.
I gasped. “Karma works fast these days.”

I collapsed onto my back, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard.
Painkillers.
Right.
“I am so smart,” I wheezed. “A genius. Truly.”

I crawled to my bag like a wounded soldier, dumping everything out. Books. Lip balm. Receipts. Trauma.
Nothing. Panic spiked. I staggered to my closet, tore through my uniform pockets. Nothing. Socks. Shoes. Even my bra, because desperation has no shame.
Nothing.

I even yanked my ponytail loose and patted my hair. “You’ve betrayed me before.”
Still nothing.
I slumped to the floor, rubbing my hip as the pain ramped up. “Okay. Think.”

I replayed yesterday in my head.
School gate. Bumped into a jerk. Got lost. Climbed a wall. Hip started hurting. I took the pills. Then I fell asleep.
I woke up to－
Blue eyes.
I froze.
“…No.”

Realization hit me like a truck.
The pills were in my hand.
Which meant－

My jaw tightened. I gritted my teeth.
“Zerran.”
Of course. Of course it was him.
That menace. That human red flag. That walking crime scene.

“I swear,” I growled, pushing myself up, “if he touched them, I hope his socks are permanently wet, his charger only works at a specific angle, and every chair he sits on squeaks.”
I limped to the bathroom, endured the least relaxing bath in existence, threw on my uniform with zero care for correctness, shoved books into my bag, and staggered out.

Mom looked up from knitting. “I thought you weren’t－”
“I’m testing my immune system,” I blurted. “For science.”
She squinted. I was already out the door.

By the time I was on the street it was already 10 am, I was late, my hip was screaming, people were staring, and I was sweating like I ran a marathon.
I barreled through the school gates like a woman possessed, ignoring the security guard’s startled, “Miss－!” behind me.

No time. No mercy. A hip was on the line.

I half-ran, half-limped down the hallway toward the nurse’s office, my bag smacking against my side like it was trying to knock sense into me. My hip screamed with every step, but I screamed louder internally because priorities.
The nurse’s office was my destination. The bin inside it was my salvation.