The doctor before me is, no doubt, a good man, with many medical degrees for human and Pokémon treatment both, an old friend of Lyra's from way back when she attended Trainer School in Cherrygrove. He's an open man, with a round, peachy face and many years' worth of laughter etched into the corners of his eyes.
But right now, the good, open man that I've had amicable chats with over coffee at Lyra's class reunions wears a tragic expression, lines of laughter turned down quietly, solemnly.
"You're being too quiet," I snap. Lyra is still in Room 1313, three floors too far. Without her by my side I feel as though I'm missing something important, and my stomach drops. My fingers itch to take her hand in mine, knowing that I'll feel her smaller fingers hug the flat of my palm to hers.
"Silver," the doctor gasps out after another short pause. "Silver, I'm so sorry."
My blood runs cold and the grip that I hold on my knees slackens. "What? Sorry for what?"
"It's, uh, coronary heart disease." Lyra's old friend has tears gathered in his eyes but he attempts to stay professional and uncaring, ending up with a wet, rigid face. He looks like he's been shot in the chest. "It… doesn't look good, at all."
The pain of crescent moons carved into my palms reigns over everything else, and I can't hear anything except for the muffled words of the good doctor and blood pounding in my ears.
"How long?" I choke after a long while. "How long do we have?"
(The doctor makes no comment that I have said we. We is for how long we both have left together, because Lyra will not be alone when she dies. I will die with her, but I won't die in the same way. She will wilt. I will wither.)
"Two weeks, maybe. On the outside."
"What's going to happen to her?" My throat is dry — scratchy. I feel oddly hollow.
Lyra's old friend coughs into his fist and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Aphasia, if she moves too often, and chest pain." He pauses to take in a sharp breath. "Heart attacks shouldn't come as a surprise."
I stand to make my way upstairs, the chair screeching on the tile loudly, but the doctor grabs my arm, pulling me back. I turn back to Lyra's old friend and try not to lash out. My hands twitch, ushering metallic rivers to my fingertips. I need to get to Lyra.
"Silver, I'm so, so sorry. We can get her a room at the hospital. We can make her comfortable until the end."
The end. The end of Lyra. Oh, Mew. My eyes gloss over and I push away from the good doctor.
"It's fine," I bite out, and turn away from Lyra's old friend bitterly. "We're fine."
a/n Feraligatr autocorrects to Federalist, 100% done