Love in the Storm

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and something faintly metallic-like sickness had seeped into the walls and refused to leave. Rita Thompson hated it. The white-washed halls, the quiet murmurs of nurses, the way doctors spoke in clipped tones as if emotions had no place here. It made her feel like she was already half a ghost.

She pulled her scarf tighter around her head, fingers brushing over the fabric as if it could somehow make up for the hair she lost to chemo. She missed it-not just the strands themselves, but the way they used to fall into her eyes, the way she used to run her fingers through them absentmindedly while sketching. Now, even looking in the mirror was a reminder of how much had been taken from her.

Across the waiting area, her mother, Veronica Thompson, sat primly by the nurse's station, flicking through a copy of San Francisco Elite. She was always more concerned with appearances than emotions. Even now, her perfectly manicured nails tapped impatiently against the glossy pages, as if waiting for this whole "cancer situation" to be over so life could return to the way it was.

Rita exhaled. She needed air.

She glanced at her mother-still distracted-then slipped away, moving fast toward the stairwell before anyone could stop her. She climbed, heart pounding, her legs weaker than they should be. The stairs groaned beneath her sneakers, but she pushed forward until she reached the rooftop.

The door creaked as she stepped outside. A cool breeze hit her face, carrying the salty scent of the bay. San Francisco stretched out before her in golden lights and deep shadows, a city so full of life it made her ache.

"You lost or something?"

She spun, startled.

A guy was leaning against the short rooftop wall, a guitar propped beside him. He looked like he belonged anywhere but here-dark tousled hair, tired eyes, a faded hoodie that had clearly seen better days. His jeans were ripped, but not in a designer way. More like a life has kicked my ass, and I kept walking kind of way.

"I could ask you the same," Rita said, defensive out of habit.

He smirked. "I come here a lot. My little sister's in the hospital, so... yeah. This place helps."

Rita hesitated, then softened. "I get that."

"You a patient?" he asked, not unkindly.

She hesitated. Most people, when they found out, got this look-pity mixed with awkwardness, like they didn't know what to say.

"Something like that," she finally said.

He didn't push. Just nodded, like that was enough.

"I'm Dominic, by the way."

"Rita."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded toward the sketchbook she had clutched against her chest. "You draw?"

"Yeah," she admitted, shifting on her feet.

"Can I see?"

She hesitated. Most people didn't care about her drawings. Her mother certainly didn't. But Dominic was looking at her like he actually wanted to know.

Slowly, she flipped open the sketchbook, revealing pages of charcoal sketches-faces caught in fleeting moments, cityscapes that felt almost alive.

Dominic let out a low whistle. "Damn. These are good."

Heat crept up her neck. "Thanks."

His eyes lingered on one sketch in particular-a lonely figure sitting on a rooftop, staring at the city below. "This one... you drew this before you ever came up here, didn't you?"

She blinked, surprised. He wasn't wrong.

"Yeah," she admitted. "I guess I just imagined a place like this."

A small smile tugged at his lips. "Maybe you were meant to find it."

The wind picked up slightly, lifting strands of her scarf. Below them, the city buzzed with life-car horns, laughter, music drifting from an open window. Up here, though, it felt like a different world.

Dominic reached for his guitar, fingers running absentmindedly over the strings. A slow, melancholic tune filled the air, wrapping around them like something sacred.

Rita closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound settle in her bones. "That's beautiful."

He shrugged. "It's just something I made up."

She opened her mouth to reply, but the rooftop door suddenly banged open.

"Rita Anne Thompson! What the hell are you doing up here?"

Her stomach twisted.

Veronica stood in the doorway, heels clicking against the concrete as she stormed toward them. Her perfectly styled hair didn't have a single strand out of place, and yet her eyes burned with a barely concealed rage.

Dominic straightened, stepping slightly in front of Rita, like he could shield her from whatever was coming.

"I was just getting some air," Rita said, voice tight.

"You were just risking your health," Veronica snapped. Her gaze flicked to Dominic, taking him in with quick, judgmental precision. "And who, exactly, are you?"

Dominic didn't flinch under her scrutiny. "Dominic Carter, ma'am. We were just talking."

Veronica's lips curled slightly, a look Rita knew all too well. Dismissive. Condescending. Like Dominic was something scraped off the bottom of her designer heels.

"Well, Dominic Carter," she said coolly, "my daughter doesn't have time for distractions."

Rita clenched her fists. "Mom-"

"Enough," Veronica snapped. "We're leaving. Now."

Dominic shot Rita a look-something unspoken passing between them. He didn't say anything, but she could feel it in his eyes: You don't have to live like this.

But she did. Didn't she?

Dominic exhaled, grabbing his guitar. "I should go."

Rita wanted to stop him. Wanted to tell her mother she wasn't a child, that she could decide who she talked to. But the weight of Veronica's control was suffocating, like an invisible leash tightening around her throat.

As Dominic passed, he leaned in slightly, voice low. "You deserve more than this."

Then he was gone.

Rita stood there, heart pounding, as the wind carried away the last echoes of his music.

For a long moment, she just stared at the closed rooftop door, her mother's voice a distant hum in the background. Something inside her was shifting, an unfamiliar but undeniable feeling creeping into her chest.

She had spent so long being told what to do, who to be, what was best for her. But standing here, in the lingering traces of Dominic's melody, she realized something.

Maybe-just maybe-she wanted more. More than a life dictated by hospital appointments and her mother's expectations. More than just being sick.

And for the first time, she let herself wonder-what if she actually fought for it?