Nathan had changed.
He wasn't perfect—no one ever is—but he had learned to slow down. To lead with gentleness instead of pride. To listen with his heart, not just his mind. His friendships began to mend, trust cautiously rebuilt on small, quiet moments. He even began mentoring some of the younger students in his department, gently guiding them the way he wished someone had guided him.
He felt like he was finally becoming the person he was meant to be.
Then life hit him like a storm with no warning.
It started with a phone call.
He was studying late for a developmental psych midterm when his father called. That was already strange—his dad rarely called this late. Nathan picked up quickly, heart thudding.
"Nathan," his father said, voice low and shaking. "Your mom... collapsed at work."
The next hour blurred.
Hospital lights. Paperwork. A white room that smelled like antiseptic and fear. He sat beside his mother's bed, watching the steady beep of the monitor, the rise and fall of her chest. Her face, usually so full of quiet love, looked pale and tired.
The diagnosis came the next day: a tumor. Pressing against her brain.
They would need surgery.
Expensive surgery.
---
Nathan didn't think. He just moved.
He dropped half his classes.
Took on three jobs—barista at a downtown café, weekend stock shift at a warehouse, tutoring psychology undergrads in the evenings.
He barely slept. Barely ate.
He told himself it was okay, that he could handle it. That love was a reason strong enough to carry any weight.
But weeks passed, and the bills kept coming.
The insurance only covered part of the procedure. The cost for the surgery, the stay, the recovery—it was beyond what he could earn, even with every hour of his day spent working.
He started skipping meals.
He stopped returning texts.
He couldn't remember the last time he laughed.
His body was tired, but his mind was worse. Constantly racing, constantly calculating, constantly afraid.
*What if she doesn't make it?*
*What if I fail her?*
*What if it's my fault I can't save her?*
He didn't even hear people's thoughts anymore. Not because they weren't there—but because his own were too loud.
---
One night, after a double shift, Nathan sat on a bench outside the hospital. He was still in his café uniform, apron stained with coffee grounds. The city lights blurred through the tears he didn't even realize he was crying.
His fingers trembled as he looked at the numbers in his notebook—rent, meds, surgery estimate, grocery list. The math didn't work. It never worked.
A woman passed by with her young child. The boy looked up at Nathan, curious, then tugged his mother's hand.
"Mom, is that man okay?" he whispered.
Nathan heard it, clear as day.
The mother didn't answer.
They walked on.
He was alone.
---
That night, Nathan had his first panic attack.
It came suddenly—like the world caved in on itself. His chest tightened. His vision blurred. His hands went numb.
*I can't breathe.*
He thought he was dying.
But he wasn't.
It was anxiety.
And it didn't leave him for weeks.
---
He stopped going to the campus.
He told his friends he was just "busy." He didn't want them to worry. Didn't want their pity.
But the truth was: he felt like he was drowning, and the harder he fought, the deeper he sank.
He wasn't angry at the world.
He was scared.
Not of death. Not even of loss.
But of failing the one person who had *always* believed in him.
His mother.