the spaces between

call

three days. that's how long it took for things to feel... almost normal. not really, but close enough that isa could pretend.

every morning started the same: coffee so bitter it made her eyes water, her tío josé humming old spanish ballads in the kitchen, her phone buzzing with matt's texts before she even opened her eyes.

she lived for those messages. for the pictures he sent—snapshots of hallways she used to walk through, his messy handwriting on math notes, even a selfie of him and nick pulling the dumbest faces.

he made it feel less lonely here. like maybe she wasn't falling apart on a different continent.

but the thing about pretending? it never lasts.

it was late afternoon when her mom's voice sliced through the apartment. sharp. too sharp.

"josé!"

isa froze, heart slamming against her ribs as her tío's footsteps thundered down the hall. murmured voices. low. urgent.

she pushed off the bed so fast her notebook slid to the floor, pages fluttering open to half-written lyrics.

when she stepped into the kitchen, everything slowed.

her mom's face was pale, her eyes wide in a way isa had only seen once before—when the call came about her dad.

"what happened?" isa's voice cracked.

josé turned, and his mouth was a tight line. "it's your tía. her breathing—she... she stopped for a minute."

isa's stomach hollowed out. "what?"

"they got her back on oxygen. but we need to go. now."

the drive to the hospital blurred. isa sat in the back seat, fingers clawing at the fabric of her jeans, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

flashbacks slammed into her like fists. sterile halls. the beep of monitors. her dad's face—gray, still, wrong.

"isa." her mom's voice tried to reach her through the storm. "mija, look at me. breathe."

she couldn't.

they burst through the hospital doors, the smell of antiseptic hitting her like a wall. isa hated it. hated how familiar it felt.

emilia was still there. still breathing—barely. her chest rose and fell like a broken tide, machines hissing, wires coiled like snakes around her frail body.

isa's knees buckled, but josé caught her before she hit the floor.

"come on, niña," he murmured, guiding her to a chair. "she's here. she's fighting."

isa stared at her aunt, throat burning. whispered, "don't go."

matt was halfway through practice drills when his phone buzzed. he ignored it at first—coach hated distractions—but something in his gut twisted hard enough to make him check.

one look at the screen and his stomach dropped.

isa: can you talk?

he didn't even type back. just yanked off his helmet, muttered something about "family thing," and bolted for the locker room.

his hands shook as he hit call, the phone pressed so tight to his ear it hurt.

she answered on the first ring.

"isa?" his voice cracked, sharp with panic.

silence. then—"matt." just his name, but broken. like glass in her throat.