Six years of posts were there for anyone to see. Illness quotes. vague updates. soft selfies under blankets. But between them were other posts. Gym mirrors. Hiking trails. Concert lights. beach cocktails. weekend trips. shopping bags. group photos outside clubs with timestamps past midnight. A caption from three weeks earlier read, Stronger than yesterday, under a picture of her holding weights at a boutique fitness studio.
The wellness center near my apartment was not a clinic.
It was a spa.
I took screenshots. Dates. captions. locations. I saved everything in a folder labeled apartment.
Then I contacted someone I had not spoken to in years: Kara’s former roommate, Hannah.
We met at a coffee shop near the river on a Saturday morning. Hannah looked uncomfortable before she even sat down.
“I don’t want drama,” she said.
“Neither do I.”
“You want to know if Kara was sick back then.”
“I want to know when the story started.”
Hannah stirred her latte for a long time. “She was tired of working. That was it. She was frustrated. She felt like jobs were beneath her, but she also hated being broke.”
I waited.
“One night she said something I never forgot,” Hannah continued. “She said, ‘If I’m sick, no one can expect anything from me.’ I thought she was joking.”
The sentence sat between us.
Not a diagnosis.
A strategy.
I went home and printed the screenshots. I printed Hannah’s message summarizing our conversation. I printed the wellness spa website. I printed my mortgage payoff confirmation and placed it at the front of the folder because the apartment was not merely the thing they wanted. It was the thing I had earned.
Then I invited my family over for dinner.
They came quickly.
My mother brought lemon bars. My father wore the relieved expression of a man who thought reason had prevailed. Kara arrived in loose clothes, face pale, steps slow. She looked fragile enough that a stranger might have offered her the chair nearest the window.
I had seen a new tagged photo of her at a rooftop bar two nights earlier.
I made chicken, roasted vegetables, and salad. I was polite. Warm, even. I asked about my father’s garden, my mother’s church fundraiser, Kara’s symptoms. She answered in soft fragments. Tough week. Bad flare. Lots of fatigue. Stress makes everything worse.
After dessert, I folded my hands on the table.
“I want to understand your illness better before we discuss the apartment.”
Kara’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth.
My mother smiled nervously. “That’s good, honey.”
I turned to Kara. “Can you tell me your official diagnosis?”