remained silent as Dr. Perkins let his eyes wander over the piece of paper Daisy had written on.

The room carried a certain stillness as the psychiatrist read each bullet point Daisy had scrawled out with her pen.

Points of fear:

• Bacteria

• Sweat

• Blood

• Death

• People (Mr. Walter)

• Red dinner plates

• Mark leaving

• August dying

• Never getting better

"Your list is...a bit heavy." Dr. Perkins commented, glancing up. "You have quite a few things that scare you in life."

Daisy didn't comment, fiddling with the hair tie on her wrist. She moved the elastic around and around, the motion the only thing keeping her attached to her surroundings.

"I understand the bacteria part, and the perspiration—a result of the OCD." Dr. Perkins glanced back up at Daisy, noting the girl already collecting the liquid on the palms of her hands. "Blood and death, because of your sister?"

Daisy moved the hair tie around, trying to think about the hair tie and only the hair tie. Thinking about Calypso was heavy and dark, and Daisy would much rather focus on twiddling a hair tie around her wrist again and again and again.

Dr. Perkins skipped over the Mr. Walter bit, not wanting to send Daisy into a nervous panic at the mention of the man's name. He instead moved onto the next bullet point, narrowing his eyes as he read.

"The rest of the list is a little murky to me." Dr. Perkins commented, looking up at Daisy. "You skip from dinnerware to abandonment to death. It's quite a jump."

Daisy stayed silent, her eyes stuck on the elastic band rotating her wrist in a constant motion. The girl could feel the subtle clamminess beginning to settle on her skin.

"I don't like that you keep it so warm in here." Daisy mumbled out, causing the man to frown. Daisy was trying her very hardest to avoid speaking aloud her fears. The things on that list were the scariest thoughts that popped into Daisy's brain, and she couldn't bear to acknowledge every little torment in her life.

But Dr. Perkins' entire job was to get people to acknowledge their trauma head on, and the man pressed ahead as he glanced down at the piece of paper for reference. "Why the dinner plates?"

Daisy frowned, her head feeling cloudy as she continued the constant rotation of the hair tie. "Because of red."

Daisy's answer was vague, and the girl had no intention of elaborating any further. Red was a bad color, an ugly and hideous hue with a horribly negative connotation. Red was blood, blood was everywhere. Blood was on Daisy all the time, and blood was bad. Blood was such a bad thing, and red was such a bad color.

Dr. Perkins still wasn't quite clear on what Daisy meant, but he let his eyes trickle down the list further. "And then you wrote 'Mark leaving', which-"

"Isn't true." Daisy spoke up, blinking hard a couple times as her thoughts participated in a never-ending race in her head. "Because he wouldn't be leaving, because it's his apartment—that would be stupid. I would be the one casted out and sent away. I wasn't clear with that point. I'm usually always concise with my points, and that one was unclear—I should've read over it again. I should've written Daisy leaving. Or me leaving, I guess, because talking in third person makes me sound so stupid and I...I..."

Daisy closed her eyes, trying her hardest to reframe her thoughts in the manner Dr. Sen had taught her. Her thoughts were spiraling out of control, far far far off the racetrack, and she desperately needed to get them back in the race before they were disqualified.

Daisy tried to take note of her surrounding environment, hoping she wouldn't feel so disconnected to the world around her.

There's a blue chair. A green plant in a sunburnt pot. A paisley-patterned rug. A plain clock strung on the wall.

Daisy's attempt to ground herself wasn't working as efficiently as she had hoped, and Daisy let out an uneven breath as she exhaled.

"I don't want to leave. Or be alone, I don't want to be alone." Daisy spoke out quietly. Her tone was so soft, as if she was scared for anybody other than Dr. Perkins to hear her thoughts. Like there was some secret eavesdropper with their ear pressed against the other side of the wooden door.

"I used to think I wanted to be alone, because I swore by my independence and I thought being alone meant having time to relax and catch up with my thoughts." Daisy paused briefly, her eyes taking in the intricate swirling pattern of the hardwood floor beneath her feet. Daisy swallowed hard, trying to push aside the lump in her throat.

"But it's different when you're actually alone. It's horrible, and lonely, and cold, and...and it's awful. I don't like being alone."

Dr. Perkins soaked up the information Daisy was spewing out, taking it in like a sponge. The man thought on Daisy's words for a moment, trying to formulate some sort of battle plan in his head.

"You don't want to leave."

Daisy wasn't sure if Dr. Perkins was asking a question or making an observation, so the girl didn't reply back. She focused rather on expressing the thoughts that were pressing so harshly against her head, wanting an out desperately.

"I'm going to, though. I'm pushing everyone away, and...and I know I'm pushing everyone away, and I can't help it. It's like I'm mean and cold and unresponsive to everybody. I'm...it's my fault if I do leave, because I'm pushing them all away."

Though Daisy knew every human being was in charge of their emotions, the situation did truly feel like something that was out of Daisy's hands, just beyond the grasp of her fingers.

"I yelled at Mark. I mean, I...I yelled at him. And I don't really have any right to yell at him because he's the adult and I'm the kid and...he didn't do anything either. I yelled at him, and he didn't even do anything. It's like I'm my own parasite. I'm the one destroying my life."

You're sort of the most miserable human being on the planet.

Shut up.

You shut up. Quit being so pathetic.

"I can't help it." Daisy spoke out loud in response to her very mean brain, furrowing her eyebrows. "I can't help it, okay?"

"You can't help what?"

Daisy snapped her eyes up to Dr. Perkins as the man questioned her, and she didn't realize she had spoken aloud.

I can't help any of it. It's like I can't control my thoughts at all, Dr. Perkins, like I truly am clinically insane. You have to help me.

Daisy blinked, wanting to let out a surplus of the thoughts that were strangling her, but instead returning to the dark thoughts from earlier.

"I'm the parasite."

Daisy knew realistically she was a human being, with skin and nails and two feet that kept her moving upright.

But she felt like a parasite, a slimy worm with no real mind of its own as it slithered from target to target to make each person's life a little more miserable.

"I'm the parasite. I take and take and take until there isn't anything left, and then I move on to destroy somebody else. I think I'm going to kill Mark."

Dr. Perkins tilted his head slightly. "You...you think you're going to kill him?"

"Not literally. This isn't some sort of psychopathic confession; I promise I'm not a serial killer." Daisy assured, noting the way Dr. Perkins looked a bit wary of her. "I just...I don't know. Mark goes to therapy now, and he didn't before. Mark doesn't hang out with Callie or Arizona anymore, because he has to spend every waking moment making sure I don't roll over and die. Mark doesn't talk to Caroline anymore, because he has to spend every waking moment making sure I don't roll over and die. I ruined all his relationships. And Callie and Arizona too, I mean, they're...they're getting divorced, and they were fine before. They were perfect before, and now they're all just...it feels like it's all my fault."

Dr. Perkins took in Daisy's long-winded confession, the man noting the way Daisy sounded out of breath at the very end. She sat wringing her hair tie around and around and around, and Dr. Perkins let out a quiet exhale.

"I hardly think you're the reason behind a failed marriage. There are a lot of factors that go into a divorce, you shouldn't place the weight of that on your back. And therapy is a good thing, right? I wouldn't necessarily pin that as a negative, and I wouldn't place that blame all on yourself. What happened to your sister shifted both of your lives dramatically. It makes sense that maybe he needs to talk to somebody in the same sense you need to talk to somebody to let it all out."

That does make sense. Maybe he's right.

Or maybe you're just ruining everybody's life.

"It feels like my fault." Daisy frowned as the words came from her lips. "I don't know how to fix it either, and it's not fair."

Dr. Perkins frowned too, taking in the distress laced heavily throughout Daisy's voice. "Have you talked to Mark about any of this?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

Daisy hesitated, not sure how to correctly answer without making herself sound like the worst human being.

Because I told him he's not allowed to talk to me. I screamed at him, actually, and demanded him to leave me alone because that's the type of person I am.

You're so shitty.

Shut up.

"I can't." Daisy sighed out, the girl feeling defeated.

Dr. Perkins grasped his pen in his hand, scrawling the word communication on the bottom of Daisy's list, underlining the word and pushing the slip of paper back towards Daisy.

"What's this?"

"It's your list."

Daisy furrowed her eyebrows, her eyes raking over the small piece of paper. "Yeah, but you wrote on it."

"What do you want to work on?" Dr. Perkins questioned, elaborating further when he noted the confusion on Daisy's face. "I mean, what do you really want to work on? What do you want to get better at?"

"You think I need to get better at communicating?" Daisy frowned. The girl took slight offense to the fact that Dr. Perkins had already started her list for her.

"I think you need to get better at having crucial conversations before pressure rips you apart." Dr. Perkins clarified. "Talk to Mark."

Daisy didn't want to talk to Mark, though. The two hadn't spoken in days, and Daisy was just fine with that arrangement. Her problems always seemed better solved when left ignored, anyway.

• • • •

Mark was hours into his Monday shift when he found his feet leading him to the pediatric wing.

Mark didn't particularly love children. He tried to clarify that point over and over and over in his head. Children had sticky fingers and blunt comments. Mark didn't particularly love children, so he wasn't sure why he was headed so insistently towards the pediatric wing.

Teenagers were even worse than children, actually. They were icy, and cold. They talked back and held zero remorse whatsoever. It was truly infuriating to Mark, so he wasn't sure why he was headed so insistently towards the pediatric wing. Perhaps if not for Daisy, Mark would let it go.

But it had been pressing on his mind all day, and he had found it in the back of his closet.

Why not? It wouldn't be an exponential loss.

Mark was well aware the situation didn't make him a better person. He wouldn't get extra brownie points with any higher power upstairs for doing the bare minimum.

But it had been pressing on his mind all day, and he had found it in the back of his closet.

When Mark entered the boy's room, he was far too happy that Daisy was absent. Daisy didn't want him speaking to her anyway, so it all worked out in that aspect.

The boy laying in the bed attempted to pry his swollen eyelids open at the sound of Mark's approaching footsteps, August squinting to try and make out the blurry figure standing in the doorway of his dark room.

"Ice chips?" The boy sputtered out two words, making it clear to Mark that August thought the man before him was one of his nurses.

"No, uh, I'm not a nurse. I'm...my name's Dr. Sloan, I..."

August let out a loud groan that halted Mark's speaking, and Mark was in disbelief that he already had a hater without the boy ever having met him. Was Mark seriously that unlikable?

"Daisy says that you're mean."

Mark scoffed, trying to mask how seriously bruised his feelings were. "I am not mean."

"And you're in love with yourself too, and you think you get to make every decision for her. I already know everything I need to know about you."

The way August spoke reminded Mark of the way Calypso used to defend her sister to the death. It didn't matter what rebuttal the opposing side had to offer, Daisy was always in the right. Much similarly to the girl's little sister, Daisy's friend seemed to have the same mindset. Mark tried not to take the comments to heart.

"Yeah, she's...not happy with me. But I'm not mean or vain or whatever. I just, uh..." Mark frowned as he took in the bleak atmosphere. "God, it's sort of awful in here. Don't you want a light on or something?"

"No. It hurts." August kept his eyes shut as he responded. Light sensitivity hadn't ever crossed Mark's mind.

Dr. Robbins had prepared August for this moment for months, so he shouldn't have been so surprised when the ophthalmologist concluded his vision was gone.

His vision, his motor skills, everything. It was draining dry in a horrible way. August hated the way he spoke, his tone similarly matching a man in his sixties who smoked a pack of cigarettes everyday. August hated the fact that his throat was constantly on fire. August hated the fact that he couldn't control his bladder functions, and the humiliating confessions to his nurse that his sheets had to be changed.

August felt selfish, but he wanted more time. He hated that he had reached the very end of his book. There wasn't ever enough time.

August was pulled back to the current situation, and the boy furrowed his eyebrows as his thoughts brewed. August was well aware that Mark didn't want Daisy around him. What right did the man have to march up to the boy on his death bed and demand him around?

"If you came down here just to lecture me about Daisy, that's just...that's stupid. 'Cause we're friends, and that's it. And...and Daisy's so pretty, but I'm not even really sure I like girls like that, so it shouldn't matter that I'm a boy and she's a girl and-"

"It doesn't matter." Mark shook his head. "The gender thing doesn't matter. I just...she takes death very heavily, and I...I don't know."

"You came down here to belittle me for dying?" August tried to connect the dots. "That's not really something I can control, so you have to find something else to be mad about."

"I'm not mad." Mark sighed out. "I just..."

Mark felt the cold object that laid against his palms. It was easier to come up with the narrative that he had casually found it in the back of his closet as opposed to specifically pulling out old boxes to find it.

"Daisy said you want to play baseball." Mark swallowed thickly. "I mean, I know you're not really in condition to be playing. But I found my old glove, and I haven't played baseball in years, so..."

August raised his eyebrows, his eyes still glued shut as his visual senses failed to fill him in.

"So?"

"Do you want to try it out?"

August hesitated, wanting nothing more than to reach out and take the man's glove. The boy knew it was impolite to take things, though, and he tried his best to stay well-mannered. "I can't see."

"So? You don't need sight to put a glove on. And I don't have a baseball on me, I'm not going to throw it at your face or anything."

August felt the faint grin appear on his lips, the boy gently nodding.

"Okay."

Mark walked closer to the hospital bed, not wanting to startle the boy occupying it. He didn't have much experience with the visually impaired, so he tried to place the glove in the boy's hand as gingerly as possible.

August's eyebrows lifted up at the feeling of cold leather against his skin, the boy pulling the glove over his fingers. He stretched his palm, feeling the protective shell of the baseball mitt move with him.

Mark tilted his head to the side as he took in the sight. "How does it feel?"

"Cold." August answered, deciding to revise his statement as a smile came on his lips. "But in a good way, like...like water on a hot day."

August couldn't stop the movement of his hand, stretching his fingers in a constant motion. For a brief moment in time, it didn't matter that his vision was gone and his motor skills were deteriorating. It didn't matter that his voice was dying out and he couldn't control his bladder. Mutated cancer cells taking over his body was the last thing on August's mind as he stretched his fingers. The boy felt normal for the first time in a long time.

A baseball glove.

August imagined a life in which he got to play baseball. His hair would stick to his skin as sweat collected due to the humid spring temperatures, and his uniform would be stained a light brown from the dirt on the field. He would have legs that could actually support his body weight, and he would be able to run to first to second to third and all the way home. August would get used to the feel of cool leather against his palm, and things like radiation treatments and hospital beds would be such faraway matters.

A baseball glove.

"This is..." August failed to find the words to properly express how excited he felt to hold the key to such a blissful faraway fantasy. A baseball glove. "This is the coolest thing ever. I don't ever want to take it off."

"You can keep it." Mark spoke up, noting the way August's sideways grin turned into more of a smile, his eyebrows upturning. "You just can't tell Daisy, because...you know..."

"You can't have her thinking you have a heart or anything."

"Precisely." Mark conceded, not elaborating that he truly just didn't want Daisy to think he was a hypocrite for coming down to August's room after explicitly asking her not to on multiple occasions.

The atmosphere of the room felt peaceful, and Mark felt as though he should leave the boy alone with his new glove.

August's voice halted Mark as the man was turning to leave, a raspy and sickly tone leaving the boy's lips.

"Daisy's really sad, you know."

Mark wasn't really sure how to respond. The statement was quite obvious, it was evidenced by the way Daisy cried in her room each night.

"I know."

"I don't think she's okay." August concluded, pursing his lips as if saying the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "She talks about being sad all the time, and...and she's gonna get even sadder once I go. I don't know. But she's really not okay. Daisy needs help."

Again, the statement spoken from August was a glaringly obvious one. Daisy was sad all the time, and though she was already talking to a psychiatrist, the girl did need help in a way that stretched farther than anything a medical professional could offer.

"I know." Mark spoke quietly again, mentally admitting defeat.