THE WEIGHT OF SILENCE

The street was quiet, almost eerily so. The wind brushed lightly through the trees, sending dry leaves tumbling across the pavement. It had been a week since Victoire's parents passed away, and he hadn't stepped out of his house once.

Daniella, Andrea, and Ryder stood outside Victoire's front door. The sun had nearly disappeared, casting a golden gloom across the neighborhood.

"Are you sure he's home?" Andrea asked, peering at the windows. "It's been days. No messages, no calls…"

"I'm worried," Daniella said softly, biting her lip. "He hasn't been eating. He hasn't even been replying to anything since the funeral."

Ryder stepped forward and knocked. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing.

"That's it," Ryder muttered. "I'm not waiting anymore." He twisted the doorknob—unlocked.

The three friends exchanged glances before slowly entering the dimly lit house. The air inside was heavy, thick with silence. The living room was untouched, as if time had frozen.

"Victoire?" Daniella called out gently.

No reply.

They crept further in, their footsteps soft against the wooden floor. As they entered the hallway, Andrea suddenly froze.

"Oh my God," she gasped.

There, lying on the floor near the kitchen, was Victoire—his face pale, his lips dry, his body curled up, trembling with fever. His breathing was faint, almost inaudible.

Daniella dropped to her knees beside him. "Victoire! Hey—can you hear me?"

He didn't respond. His skin was burning hot, and his clothes were drenched in sweat.

"He's unconscious," Ryder said, panicked. "And he's burning up. We have to get help!"

"I'm calling an ambulance," Andrea said, already pulling out her phone.

A few minutes later, sirens wailed in the distance. The paramedics rushed in and quickly assessed the situation.

"He's severely dehydrated and has a dangerously high fever," one of them said. "It looks like he hasn't eaten or drank anything for days."

The friends looked at each other, guilt and fear flooding their expressions.

As they placed Victoire on the stretcher and rolled him out, Daniella whispered, "Please don't leave us…"

---

At the hospital, the fluorescent lights buzzed softly above. Victoire had been admitted to intensive care. His friends sat in the waiting room, nervous and silent.

Eventually, a doctor walked in, holding a clipboard.

"You're his friends, yes?" he asked.

They nodded quickly.

"He's in critical condition," the doctor explained. "Severe malnutrition, fever, and emotional trauma. We're doing everything we can, but he needs extensive treatment. The estimated cost for his full recovery will be around one million dollars."

Andrea's jaw dropped. "One million?"

Ryder stepped forward. "Is there any way to reduce the cost?"

"I'm afraid not. Without immediate, complete care, he won't make it," the doctor said, his tone grave.

Ryder looked down at the floor, hands clenched. "I'll ask my parents."

Daniella turned to him, her eyes wide. "But... they don't like Victoire."

"I know," Ryder replied, "but I have to try. He's our friend. He needs us now more than ever."

Andrea nodded. "We'll figure something out. We have to."

---

Later that night, Ryder stood outside the gates of his massive house. He hadn't been home since the funeral. With a deep breath, he entered.

His parents were seated in the luxurious living room, sipping wine.

"Ryder," his father said coldly. "Where have you been?"

"I was with Victoire. He's sick. Really sick," Ryder said, walking closer.

His mother frowned. "You're still seeing that boy? We've told you—he's not your kind."

"I don't care what you think of him!" Ryder snapped. "He lost his parents. Now he's dying. And he needs one million dollars for treatment."

His parents exchanged a look.

"You're not seriously asking us for that money, are you?" his father said.

"I am. Because I won't let him die. He's my friend."

Silence filled the room. His mother finally spoke, voice cold. "You'll end up just like him if you keep following him."

"Then so be it," Ryder replied. "I'd rather be like him than live in this house full of money and no heart."

And with that, he turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

---

Back at the hospital, Victoire stirred in his bed. His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, he opened his eyes. Daniella was at his side, holding his hand.

"You're awake," she whispered, tears in her eyes.

Victoire blinked slowly. "W-what… happened?"

"You fainted. We found you on the floor. You haven't eaten in days," Andrea said, coming to his other side.

"You scared us, man," Ryder added, placing a hand on Victoire's shoulder. "We thought we lost you."

Victoire's voice was barely a whisper. "I… didn't want to be a burden."

Daniella shook her head, tightening her grip on his hand. "You could never be a burden. You're our brother."

Victoire's eyes filled with tears. "Even though your parents hate me?"

"They don't matter," Ryder said. "You matter. We'll fight for you."

The monitor beside Victoire beeped steadily, as if agreeing.

The three friends stayed there by his side all night, refusing to let him go. And though the road ahead would be long, they made a silent promise:

They would not let fame, money, or rejection break the bond they had forged.