I acted like I didn't hear anything. When I got home, I locked the door behind me without a second thought. It was just a few flights of stairs, but it felt like they had drained every last bit of energy from my body. I collapsed onto the couch and immediately fell into a deep, heavy sleep. When I came to, the room was dead silent. Outside the window, it was completely dark. I had no idea what time it was—or even what day. I dragged myself upright. After digging through drawers and cupboards, all I could find was a single pack of pasta. I made them and sat down with a plate in front of me, fork in hand—only to realize I couldn't even pick up the pasta. I'd been using forks for almost twenty years, but suddenly, they felt like alien objects in my hands. I kept going through the motions, but every time, I just watched the pasta slip through and fall back onto the plate. A creeping sense of dread started to coil up my spine, slow and cold like a snake. I tried switching to a fork and spoon, but the pasta just slid off and landed on the floor. It was like a horror story unfolding in real time, right in front of me. I stared blankly at my palms. My fingers were stiff, numb—like they were slowly freezing over. The hunger was making my head spin. I thought, I needed help. I should go to the hospital. But I wasn't sure if I was just panicking—or if things had really gotten that bad. I couldn't even unlock my phone to open my contacts. After trying over and over, I finally managed to hit the emergency call shortcut. It rang for a long time before someone picked up. In the haze of it all, I suddenly remembered— I'd set Shawn as my emergency contact. There was a long silence on the other end, like they were waiting for me to speak. Then finally, a cold, impatient voice cut through. "What do you want?" Panic and fear surged through me—the words asking for help were right on the edge of my lips. Then I tasted salt, sharp and bitter, and it hit me—I'd been crying. I was so scared, so lost, I hadn't even realized the tears had started. On the other end of the line, Shawn's voice came again, flat and indifferent. "If there's nothing else, hang up." I lowered my gaze and stared at my hands. I tried moving my fingers, but they wouldn't respond. I tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn't budge either. My thoughts started spinning out of control. I suddenly remembered a news story I'd seen a few days ago. It was about a man with ALS. In the final stages, his whole body had shut down. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe on his own, couldn't even swallow. He was hooked up to tubes from head to toe, trapped in endless pain. In the end, his family couldn't bear to watch him suffer—they pulled out the oxygen tube. I thought, What if I ended up like that too? What if I begged Shawn to do the same for me—to pull the plug? A sharp, burning pain spread through my chest with every breath. I couldn't even picture it. No. No, I couldn't let him see me like that. He mustn't know. It was better that way. I forced myself to stop shaking. Then, in the calmest voice I could manage, I said, "Sorry. Wrong number." There was a long pause. Then he let out a cold, dry laugh, like he'd seen this coming. "Good. Then don't ever call me again." Click. The line went dead. The silence in the living room hit me all at once, heavy and absolute. I sat there, completely still, feeling like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Sometime past midnight, Joshua called. He must've heard something from someone at the hospital—found out what was happening to me. His voice came through the phone, full of anger. "You're seriously keeping something like this from me?" But as he spoke, his voice started to shake. I waited quietly, letting him get it all out. When he finally calmed down, I asked, softly, "My arms and legs… I can't move them anymore. Could you take me to the hospital?"