Chapter Text
Brooke was 13 the first time it happened.
She stood up too fast after dinner — just popped off the couch to grab something from the kitchen — and the whole room tilted.
She stopped walking.
Her vision tunnelled slightly, like she was looking through a narrow paper tube, and her ears buzzed with a low, electrical hum. Her heart suddenly slammed into her chest, fast and loud. She gripped the edge of the counter and blinked a few times until it passed.
Weird.
Maybe she hadn’t eaten enough. Maybe she was dehydrated. Maybe she stood too fast.
She didn’t mention it.
When her dad walked in thirty seconds later, drying a plate with a dishtowel, she just reached for the box of cereal like nothing had happened.
“You good?” he asked, glancing at her.
Brooke nodded. “Just hungry again.”
She didn’t really think about it again until a week later.
She’d been up late finishing a science project the night before, and during gym, they were doing fitness testing — sit-ups, push-ups, mile run. The second she stood up after lying flat for the push-up portion, her head spun again.
She swayed.
Ava, her closest friend, caught her arm. “Whoa. Are you okay?”
Brooke waved her off. “Yeah. Just dizzy. I think I got up too fast.”
Ms. Rayburn, the PE teacher, barked, “If you’re going to faint, sit down before you break your nose.”
Brooke forced a laugh, cheeks burning. “I’m fine.”
But it kept happening.
Little things.
Random and scattered.
She’d feel fine one moment, then weirdly flushed and shaky the next. Her legs would feel like Jell-O walking between classes. Her heart would race during homeroom like she’d just run a sprint, even when she hadn’t moved.
She started taking the elevator instead of the stairs. She stopped telling people why.
She was just tired.
That’s what she told herself. What she told her friends. What she told her dad when he raised an eyebrow at how much time she spent lying on the floor after school, backpack dumped beside her, eyes closed like the day had physically knocked her out.
“Everything okay?” he asked one Friday afternoon as he set down a file and crouched beside her.
Brooke opened one eye. “Long day.”
He smiled softly. “Want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “Not really.”
He didn’t press. He rarely did.
The worst part was how impossible it was to describe.
It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. Not in a way that made sense.
It was like… her body forgot how to be her body. Her chest would race when she was still. Her brain would fog over when she tried to focus. Her legs would shake going up the stairs, and sometimes she’d feel like she was floating just slightly outside of herself — not dizzy enough to fall, but not grounded either.
But how do you say that?
How do you explain to adults — to doctors — that something is wrong when you don't even know yourself?
So she didn’t.
She pushed through it.
Shrugged it off.
Drank more water.
Packed salty snacks like she'd seen Emily do during summer cases.
And every time her dad checked in — a concerned look, a soft “You’ve been pretty quiet lately” — she just gave him the same answer.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
The truth was, she didn’t know how to talk about it.
Not yet.
Not when she was already trying so hard to be normal.
Not when she didn’t want to worry him.
So she stayed quiet.
And hoped it would go away.