Chapter 8: Collapse on the Track

Eight

On Wednesday during gym class, I felt a little unwell but didn’t think much of it, running laps with my classmates as the teacher instructed.

The late September heat clung to my skin, making every step feel heavier. I’d skipped breakfast cramming for a quiz and forgot the granola bar I usually carry. The track shimmered in the sun, the smell of fresh-cut grass mixing with sweat.

Boys and girls ran separately—girls first, boys waiting on the side.

The guys lounged by the bleachers, tossing footballs and trading jokes. The girls jogged in a loose pack, ponytails swinging, sneakers pounding the red clay track.

As I ran, my vision suddenly went black, my limbs went weak and numb. Only then did I realize my low blood sugar was acting up.

It snuck up on me—one minute I was breathing steady, the next I was seeing stars. My knees buckled, and I gasped, trying to stay upright.

But it was too late. My foot slipped and I fell to my knees on the track.

The impact jarred my bones, dirt grinding into my skin. I heard a few girls gasp, the thud of my fall echoing in the hush.

There were shouts all around. Soon, footsteps rushed over, and a strong hand grabbed my arm, pulling me up.

The world spun, faces swimming in and out of focus. I blinked, trying to make sense of the voices around me.

It was Derek.

He crouched beside me, face tense. I could see the worry etched between his brows, a flash of him carrying me after a middle school ankle sprain, the old Derek peeking through for just a moment.

"Low blood sugar again? Did you not eat properly?"

He sounded exasperated, but his grip was gentle. I yanked my arm away, irritation bubbling up inside me.

"Running like this, can’t you take care of yourself? Does it hurt? I’ll take you to the nurse’s office."

He fussed over me, his voice a mixture of scolding and concern. The old routine—him trying to save me, me wishing he’d just leave me alone.

He nagged at my ear. I was already annoyed from falling, and the stares from classmates made it worse.

I could feel everyone’s eyes on us, some whispering, some pretending not to notice. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

I struggled, trying to pull my arm away.

I didn’t want his help—not after everything. I forced myself to stand, swaying a little.

"Don’t touch me, I can walk myself."

I spat the words out, voice trembling. I saw the hurt flicker in his eyes, but I didn't care.

He growled,

His voice was low, barely controlled. "Seriously? I’m trying to help. Care about your health, okay! I’ll just take you to the nurse and leave, is that enough?"

I laughed bitterly.

The sound came out hollow, echoing in my chest. I shook my head, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Didn’t you hear me? Low blood sugar isn’t some big deal. I just need to sit down for a while, I’m not dying. Do you really have to take me to the nurse’s office?"

My words were sharp, edged with resentment. I knew I was being stubborn, but I couldn’t help it.

Derek gritted his teeth.

He looked like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t find the words. His jaw worked, muscles tense.

After a while, he forced out a few words.

He stared at the ground, voice barely above a whisper. "Do you have to be so ungrateful?"

I looked at him calmly.

I refused to let his words get to me. I kept my voice steady, my posture firm. "If that’s what you want to think, I can’t help it."

Derek let go and walked off without looking back.

His shoulders were stiff, his steps uneven. I watched him go, the ache in my chest dull but constant.