"I'm going to faint from stress."
I say it with full conviction.
Full drama.
Full emotional weight.
Because at this point, I deserve an Oscar.
Kiara doesn't even look up.
"Please do," she says calmly. "Maybe they'll sedate you and give us all some peace."
I gasp, clutching my chest like she just stabbed me emotionally.
"Unbelievable," I whisper. "This is betrayal. I almost died and this is how you treat me?"
"You didn't almost die just now," she replies, flipping a page in her magazine. "You're reading emails."
"Exactly!" I snap, waving the file in the air like it personally offended me. "This is worse."
Because it is.
It really is.
I glare down at the stack of files sitting on my lap.
My brother—
my dear, overprotective, emotionally unavailable, annoyingly logical brother—
decided that since I "can't leave the hospital," I should "at least stay productive."
Which translates to:
"Here, Luna, suffer professionally as well."
I pick up another document, scanning the numbers.
My eyes narrow.
"This doesn't even make sense," I mutter. "Who wrote this? A confused accountant?"
Kiara shrugs. "Maybe you did."
I freeze.
"…Don't say things like that."
She smirks.
I sigh dramatically, letting the file drop onto my lap.
"I can't believe I'm doing office work in a hospital bed," I complain. "This is against basic human rights."
"No, it's called responsibility."
"It's called torture."
My gaze shifts to the tray beside me.
And there it is.
The real villain of this story.
Hospital food.
I stare at it like it personally ruined my life.
"What is that?" I ask slowly.
Kiara glances over. "Food."
"That is not food."
"It's edible."
"Barely."
I pick up the spoon cautiously, poking at whatever sad, colorless thing they've served me today.
It moves.
Suspiciously.
"No," I say immediately, dropping the spoon. "Absolutely not."
"You need to eat."
"I'd rather starve."
"You're dramatic."
"I have standards."
She rolls her eyes. "You ate street food that one time and almost cried because it was too spicy."
"That was different," I argue. "That had flavor. This has… depression."
Kiara bursts out laughing.
I sit back against the pillow, crossing my arms like a child who's been personally wronged by society.
"I hate this place," I declare.
"Shocking."
"I mean it," I continue, ignoring her. "They won't let me leave, they make me work, and now they're trying to poison me."
"It's not poison."
"Prove it."
"I'm not eating it."
"Exactly."
She laughs again, shaking her head.
I grab another file, flipping it open with unnecessary aggression.
"Fine," I mutter. "If I have to suffer, I'm going to suffer productively."
"That's the spirit."
I glare at her.
"Don't encourage this."
But I read.
Numbers.
Reports.
Contracts.
My brain slowly starts shifting back into something familiar.
Something structured.
Something that makes sense.
And for a moment—
just a moment—
I forget I'm in a hospital.
Until—
"Eat."
I look up.
Adrian.
Standing at the door.
Of course.
Always appearing at the worst possible time.
I narrow my eyes at him.
"No."
He doesn't even react.
"Eat."
"I said no."
"You need to recover."
"I need real food."
"That is real food."
"That is a crime."
Kiara snorts.
Traitor.
I point at the tray. "You eat it."
"I'm not the one recovering."
"Convenient."
He steps further into the room, arms crossed.
That look.
That I'm not arguing with you look.
I hate that look.
"I sent you work," he says. "You're not doing it."
"I am doing it," I snap. "I'm just complaining while doing it. There's a difference."
He raises an eyebrow.
"There isn't."
"There is," I insist. "It's called multitasking."
Kiara nods. "She's actually been very efficient at complaining."
I glare at her again.
"I need new friends."
"You don't deserve new friends."
"Rude."
I drop the file onto the bed dramatically.
"I can't focus in this environment," I declare. "The lighting is bad. The energy is bad. The food is criminal."
Adrian exhales slowly.
"Luna—"
"No, listen," I cut him off, sitting up straighter. "If you expect me to work, I need proper conditions."
"This is a hospital."
"Exactly. Unacceptable."
Kiara is now openly laughing, not even trying to hide it.
Adrian pinches the bridge of his nose.
I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice like I'm negotiating something serious.
"Take me home," I say.
He looks at me.
Unmoved.
"Eat first."
I blink.
"Are you blackmailing me with food?"
"Yes."
I stare at him.
He stares back.
This is war.
I slowly pick up the spoon again.
Carefully.
Suspiciously.
Kiara leans forward like she's about to witness something historic.
I take a small bite.
Pause.
My face immediately twists in disgust.
"Oh my god," I whisper. "This is worse than I imagined."
Kiara bursts into laughter.
Adrian doesn't react.
Of course he doesn't.
I swallow with visible effort, glaring at him like he personally cooked this.
"You're evil."
"Eat."
"I hate you."
"Eat."
I take another bite.
Slower this time.
More reluctant.
"This is abuse," I mutter.
"You're dramatic."
"I was shot!"
"And now you're eating."
I glare at him.
Then at the food.
Then back at him.
"…If I eat this," I say slowly, "you owe me."
He doesn't even hesitate.
"No."
I gasp again.
"Unbelievable. Truly."
Kiara wipes a tear from her eye. "This is the best thing I've seen all week."
I slump back slightly, defeated but still dramatic.
"Fine," I mutter. "But if I die from this, I'm haunting both of you."
"Noted," Adrian says calmly.
I take another bite.
Still disgusting.
Still tragic.
Still—
unfair.
But as I sit there, complaining, eating, arguing—
alive—
I realize something.
This chaos.
This ridiculous, dramatic, annoying moment—
it's mine.
And honestly?
I'd rather be here—
complaining about hospital food and work—
than anywhere else.
Even if I will never admit that out loud.