The Weight of What Could Have Been.

The alarm clock blared at 6:30 a.m., its shrill sound cutting through the silence of Dylan's small, cluttered room. He groaned, slapping at the snooze button with a hand that felt heavier than it should. His body ached, not from exertion but from the kind of fatigue that seeped into his bones, the kind that no amount of sleep could fix. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, where a faint crack ran from one corner to the other. It reminded him of the fracture in his life the one that had split everything into before and after.

Before the sickness. After the diagnosis. Before his parents' divorce. After they left him with Aunt Marla.

Dylan sat up slowly, his joints protesting as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The room was dim, the curtains drawn to keep out the harsh morning light that always seemed to mock him. He reached for the bottle of pills on his nightstand, the label worn from too many touches. *Take one daily with food.* He popped the cap and dry-swallowed the pill, wincing as it stuck in his throat. It was a small ritual, one he'd grown used to over the past two years, but it never got easier.

The mirror across the room caught his eye, and he avoided it like he always did. He didn't need to see the dark circles under his eyes or the way his hoodie hung loosely on his frame. He didn't need to be reminded of what he'd lost the soccer games, the gym classes, the simple joy of running without feeling like his lungs were on fire. He didn't need to see the ghost of who he used to be.

Downstairs, Aunt Marla was already in the kitchen, humming softly as she scrambled eggs. The smell made Dylan's stomach turn, but he forced himself to sit at the table. She glanced at him, her smile warm but tinged with worry.

"Morning, kiddo," she said, sliding a plate in front of him. "How'd you sleep?"

"Fine," he muttered, pushing the eggs around with his fork. It wasn't a lie, exactly. He'd slept, but it was the kind of sleep that left him more tired than when he'd gone to bed.

Aunt Marla sat across from him, her coffee steaming in her hands. She was in her early forties, with the same dark hair and sharp features as Dylan's dad, but her eyes were softer, kinder. She'd taken him in without hesitation when his parents had decided they couldn't or wouldn't handle a sick kid. Dylan knew he should be grateful, but most days, he just felt like a burden.

"You got your appointment today, right?" she asked, breaking the silence.

Dylan nodded, his stomach twisting at the thought. Another doctor, another round of tests, another disappointment. He'd stopped hoping for a miracle a long time ago, but Aunt Marla hadn't. She was always looking for the next treatment, the next specialist, the next glimmer of hope.

"Maybe this one will have something new," she said, her voice too bright. "You never know."

Dylan didn't respond. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd stopped believing in "new" a long time ago.

---

School was its own kind of hell. Dylan shuffled through the halls, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his head down. He kept to the edges, avoiding the clusters of kids who laughed and joked like they didn't have a care in the world. He used to be one of them—before the sickness, before the divorce, before everything fell apart. Now, he was the kid who couldn't run, couldn't play, couldn't even keep up in gym class. The kid who got winded walking up the stairs. The kid who everyone pitied but no one really saw.

The only person who still saw him was Marcus. They'd been friends since elementary school, back when Dylan's biggest worry was whether he'd make the soccer team. Marcus was the kind of guy who could make anyone laugh, even on their worst days. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a grin that could light up a room, and he'd stuck by Dylan through everything the diagnosis, the divorce, the endless doctor's appointments. He was the one person who didn't treat Dylan like he was made of glass.

"Yo, Dyl!" Marcus called, catching up to him in the hallway. "You look like crap. What's new?"

Dylan managed a half-smile. "Same old, same old."

Marcus slung an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward their lockers. "You hear about that new medical place? The one that's supposed to cure, like, everything?"

Dylan shrugged. "Yeah, I heard."

"You gonna check it out?"

"I don't know. Probably a scam."

Marcus frowned, his usual easygoing demeanor slipping for a moment. "You don't know that. Could be legit. Could be your ticket out of this mess."

Dylan didn't respond. He wanted to believe it wanted it so badly it hurt but he'd been burned too many times before. Hope was a dangerous thing when you were sick. It could crush you just as easily as it could lift you up.

---

The doctor's office was the same as always sterile, impersonal, and filled with the faint smell of antiseptic. Dylan sat on the exam table, his legs dangling over the edge, while the doctor flipped through his chart. Dr. Patel was new, young, and too enthusiastic for Dylan's liking. She talked a lot about "cutting-edge treatments" and "promising breakthroughs," but it all sounded like noise to him.

"There's a new clinical trial," she said, looking up from the chart. "It's for patients with your condition. It's still in the early stages, but the results so far are encouraging."

Dylan's heart skipped a beat, but he forced himself to stay calm. "What kind of trial?"

"It's a gene therapy," she explained. "They're targeting the root cause of your illness, trying to repair the damaged cells. It's not a cure, but it could significantly improve your quality of life."

Aunt Marla leaned forward, her eyes shining. "Where is it? How do we sign up?"

Dr. Patel smiled. "It's being run by a company called NovaGen. They're based out of state, but they're opening a clinic here next month. I can refer you if you're interested."

Dylan's mind raced. NovaGen. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. He wanted to believe this was the answer, the thing that would finally fix him, but the fear of disappointment held him back.

"What do you think, Dylan?" Aunt Marla asked, her voice soft.

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Let's do it."

---

That night, Dylan lay in bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts hope, fear, doubt, and something else, something he couldn't quite name. He thought about what his life could have been if he hadn't gotten sick. If his parents hadn't left. If he could just be normal.

He thought about NovaGen and the trial. Maybe it was a scam. Maybe it was nothing. But maybe, just maybe, it was the start of something new.

And for the first time in a long time, Dylan let himself hope.