and rest my hand on her stomach, she does not flinch or move away. Her body is warm, and I can feel its firmness sitting and tightening below her skin. The fairy lights she hung on the tops of her walls are lightly blinking on and off. My hand stays still for just a second longer. 

—

We are walking around her neighborhood. 

“Jake told me about a party he’s having this weekend,” she says, looking forward. Jake didn’t tell me about the party. Bella and Jake used to like each other in sixth grade, three years before. 

“Are you gonna go?” I ask, trying not to seem excited even though my mind’s already flashing with visions of Jake sitting next to me on a couch in his basement, Jake offering me a hit of the vape he stole from his older brother.

Then I notice Bella’s sharp intake of air through her nose. Her hand on her stomach. Since I learned about her pain, I can see the symptoms more clearly. She uses too much concealer to cover the dark circles under her eyes; it dries powdery and in blotches. She moves the food on her plate in circles.

“What do you think?” she asks me like I’m a child. The day before, she had told me that the doctors were saying it was getting bigger. In the street, she leans forward slightly, humming through her closed lips. By that point, she had stopped going to school as much due to these outbreaks of pain. Most mornings she wakes up groaning, her hands pressing hard against her stomach. 

“Maybe it would be a good distraction,” I say. 

“I’m not going,” she says between clenched teeth. Her walking slows to a full stop as her torso bends over itself. “But why don’t you go, Sadie? You clearly want to.” 

“What? No, I don’t care,” I say firmly. I notice a few beads of sweat along her hairline before she wipes them away, straightening her back and regaining her composure. 

“You do.” She’s looking straight at me; her green eyes almost glowing. “It’s kinda pathetic.”

—

I’m sitting in the back row of my math class, an empty desk next to me where Bella used to sit, staring at the back of Jake’s head. He’s wearing a loose shirt and one airpod in his ear. Suddenly, the skin on his neck creases and he looks back at me. A piece of folded paper materializes and glides from his palm into his finger and finally, to my desk. For a second I let myself imagine he’s been thinking of me all semester, working up the courage to pass this small graph paper. I don’t let my hands shake when I unfold it; I don’t let my cheeks rise. It reads “can you tell Bella I hope she’s doing alright?” I nod back at him, and he sends me a thumbs up before turning his back to me. 

—

The hairball continues to grow and I try not to look at her stomach, skin stretching and molding to it’s size, becoming bulbous. Sometimes, when I arrive at her house after school, she’s just waking up and I can see the rivers of dried saliva cracking down her chin.  I apply a hot paper towel to her chin and rub off the dried spit; I dot my pointer finger with pink lip balm and press it onto her lips. The room smells like a basement, like mold; I light a candle. 

She falls asleep again before I leave. On my way out, I take a bottle of vanilla perfume from her desk. She’s not using it anymore, and I love the scent. I tell myself I’ll return it once she’s better.

At school, the concern for Bella fades. They ask me new questions: what I’m doing over the weekend, where I got my top. I had never been without Bella, her trendy outfits and high cheekbones. And so, it’s nice, walking to class with no one by my side. People wave only to me when I walk past them.  

—

Somehow Bella notices the decrease in cards and flowers, becomes mean and angry. Jealous. So I don’t tell her how Jake moved his seat to the desk next to mine. Or about the parties I’m invited to. 

I come back from her bathroom, towel in hand to wash her face and she has my phone in her hands.

“When were you going to tell me about this?”

“I don’t know if I’m even going.” I try to stay calm. 

“You told Jake you were.” 

“I thought it would be a good distraction,” I say. 

“From what? Me?” She doesn’t even look sick, just angry. I’m almost scared until I remember that she can barely walk. 

“No, it’s just a lot sometimes.” I look around, I think of my teachers, complimenting how good a friend I am, the way her parents thank me. “I do a lot for you.” 

“I’m the one who’s sick.” She looks crazy, her eyes wide.

“Clearly.” It escapes my mouth so fast, like I’ve been waiting to say it. 

“You should go, you know you wouldn’t be invited if I wasn’t here.” She gestures to her bed, with its dirty sheets and pill bottles. 

 I want to tell her she’s wrong. I want to believe she’s wrong. “You couldn’t even go if you were invited,” I say, “it’s just kinda pathetic.”

—

Bella does not want me to come to her house anymore, but her parents text me updates. They tell me about how they have just met with a new doctor, one who feels confident he can remove the hairball through surgery without impacting any of her organs.

“It’s all going to be over soon.” 

—

I know where they hide the key. When I enter her room, she is sleeping. 

I move closer, look down. Her face is tired and strained, her mouth is wide open. She is still pretty, even now. It is like being friends with the sun. She burns my skin, changes everything, reaches everywhere. I notice a small strand of dark hair in the corner of her mouth, trembling with her breath. 

I reach for it, twist it between my fingers. In this moment I don’t care about Jake, or anyone. I pull. 

I start carefully, there is not much resistance. Her wrist twitches and so I go faster. The strand is long and strong, another one appears twisted into it. It grows thicker, and I pull with two hands. Her toes curl underneath the covers. 

It starts to feel tighter, as though caught on something, I pull harder. I imagine the hairball unraveling like a ball of yarn. The strands are held together with blood and a clear liquid that is thick and sticky, coating my hands with a glossy residue. Her eyes squint open. 

The hair feels stuck, so I reorient myself, with my knees on the bed along the sides of her waist I continue tugging. She is awake now and screaming, but the hair muffles the noise. Next to her head, the knotted rope is gathering, finally outside of her body. I am healing her. 

Her body shakes and convulses, her eyes appear as though jumping out of her head. She squeezes my arms, my waist, my neck. I swat away easily. 

My arms are tired. I imagine the walks we will take around the cul-de-sac, I think of going to school. I tug harder and her head jerks up in response. Her eyes are wide. They look past me. 

The strand is taught, and it will not move any longer. Her stomach has deflated, and her body lies still and removed. My hands are tangled in the hair, my body surrounded. It itches and tightens around my legs.