Lupus, But You Don’t Look Sick by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Literary Fiction

 

Lupus, But You Don’t Look Sick

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,243

It was the third family barbecue of the summer, and Cierra could already feel the weight of everyone’s eyes—even though no one was looking at her directly.

The scent of charred ribs and sun-warmed potato salad curled through the air. Frankie Beverly crooned from a Bluetooth speaker someone had balanced on the porch railing. Cierra sat under a patchy strip of shade, her oversized sunglasses hiding the dark hollows beneath her eyes. The warmth of the Georgia sun pressed against her skin like judgment.

“You should really try moving more,” Aunt Sheila said, handing her a plate loaded with macaroni and ribs. “I read an article that said people with those autoimmune things just need to build up their stamina.”

Cierra blinked. “It’s not that simple. Lupus—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Aunt Sheila cut in. “But back in my day, we just walked it off. Pain is just weakness leaving the body, baby.”

She wanted to scream. Instead, Cierra set the plate on the ground beside her untouched and pulled her cardigan tighter around her arms, even though it was nearly 90 degrees.

Her body was a battleground. Her joints ached. Her skin flared with rashes after too much sun. Some days her hands didn’t work right—gripping a pen or opening a bottle felt like climbing a mountain. There were mornings when her legs simply refused to move. And the fatigue—it wasn’t just tiredness. It was bone-deep exhaustion, like she had to swim through concrete to sit up in bed.

Yet every time she tried to explain, her family met her with confusion or unsolicited advice.

“You still on that medicine?” Aunt Sheila’s voice sliced through the buzz of chatter. She plopped down beside Cierra, fanning herself with a paper plate. “You know, you really oughta try yoga. I saw this girl on TikTok—swore her lupus disappeared after she cleaned up her diet and started meditating.”

Cierra forced a smile. “That’s not how it works.”

Aunt Sheila waved her off. “I’m just saying. Your body needs to move. You can’t let yourself stay down. You young—you bounce back.”

Cierra looked at her aunt’s acrylics glinting in the sunlight, imagined how it would feel to explain—again—that her immune system was attacking her own organs. That sometimes her heart beat irregularly just from climbing stairs. That movement wasn’t always an option.

But she said nothing. She was too tired to educate today.

“Hey!” Uncle Royce yelled from the grill. “Cierra, you still drinking all them sodas? I told you—cut that mess out and your body will thank you.”

“I haven’t had soda in months and I can drink them if I want to, doc said so,” she said flatly.

Dana, her cousin with perfect edges and even more perfect opinions, strolled by with a red cup and a sideways smile. “I had a co-worker with something like that. She stopped eating red meat and gluten, and it went into remission. Maybe it’s worth a try?”

Cierra flinched. She hated the word: “something like that.” Lupus wasn’t a category. It was a condition. A war.

She stood up slowly, knees stiff, ignoring the dull heat behind her eyes. The heat meant her body was inflamed again. She shouldn't have even come. But when she skipped family events, people talked. When she showed up, they still talked.

Inside the house, her mother was pulling a pie out of the oven.

“You didn’t eat a thing,” her mother said, not turning around. “You need to keep your strength up.”

“I’m nauseous,” Cierra said. “The meds mess with my stomach.”

“Well, you can’t just waste away, baby,” her mother huffed. “All you do is sleep. You’ve got to fight through it.”

Cierra gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself. “Mama,” she said, quiet but firm, “you keep acting like I’m not trying. Every day I wake up and push through pain you don’t see. I take meds that wreck my body just to slow the disease down. I show up here today when I should’ve stayed home in bed. And all I hear is how I’m not doing enough.”

Her mother turned, lips pursed, eyes unsure. “I just don’t want to see you give up.”

“I’m not giving up,” Cierra whispered. “I’m surviving. But it feels like I have to prove I’m sick every time I walk into a room.”

There was silence. Her mother opened her mouth, then closed it. “I guess... I don’t understand,” she finally said. “You don’t look sick.”

Cierra pulled up the sleeve of her cardigan, revealing the faint purple rash on her arm. “That’s the thing. I hide it so y’all don’t worry. But I’m tired of hiding.”

Her mother didn’t speak. Just stood there, holding the pie, like if she focused hard enough, she could make this conversation go away.

Cierra clenched her jaw. “I’m on steroids, Mama. They make me swell up and shrink depending on the week. I can’t control it.”

Her mother waved a hand. “Don’t be so dramatic. You just need to pray more and get some rest.”

“Mama,” Cierra said softly, placing her palms on the counter. “I have lupus. It’s not the flu. It’s chronic. It’s for life. Rest doesn’t cure it. Prayers don’t stop the inflammation in my organs.”

Her mother turned toward her slowly. “But you don’t look sick.”

Cierra felt the words like a slap.

Because she had learned how to look well. To cover up the scars. To smile when her body screamed. To say, “I’m fine,” even when she wanted to cry. Because if she looked sick—really sick—they would treat her like a stranger. And if she looked well, they refused to believe her.

“I’m tired, Mama,” she said. “Not just from lupus. From having to explain it all the time. From being told I’m lazy. From being treated like I’m weak because I ask for help.”

Her mother’s eyes softened. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“But it still hurts,” Cierra whispered.

They stood in silence, the hum of the fridge filling the room. For once, her mother didn’t have an answer.

She turned to leave, heading toward the door, her cardigan still tight around her.

“Where you going?” her mother called.

“Home,” she said. “To rest. Because I have a chronic illness, not an attitude problem.”

She didn’t say it in anger. She said it as a boundary. As truth.

“I need to rest,” Cierra said. “Not because I’m weak. Because I’m sick. And I shouldn’t have to apologize for that.”

She walked outside, the sun low in the sky now, the laughter behind her like a distant radio station. She made it to her car and sat behind the wheel, letting the air conditioning blast. Her body throbbed in places that had no business hurting. She was exhausted, but it wasn’t the kind sleep could fix.

Her phone buzzed.

Mom: I don’t know how to help you. But I want to try. Can we talk this week? You can show me what you’re dealing with. I’m sorry.

Cierra stared at the message for a long time.

She didn’t respond right away. She wasn’t ready to carry anyone else’s learning curve. But it was a start.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt like someone was finally trying to meet her where she was—rather than drag her somewhere she couldn’t go.

The Last Light by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction

The Last Light

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 232

In a creaky farmhouse in rural Mississippi, just after sunset. The wind clawed at the shutters like it wanted in. Mabel sat in her rocker, one slippered foot keeping rhythm, the other resting near the cold fireplace.

Then—there it was.

“I hear a noise downstairs.”

Her voice cracked the silence like a match in a dark room.

"My Lord, what now?"

She rose slowly. Not out of fear, but from old bones stiff with memory.

Each stair announced her with a groan. The kitchen light was off, but she saw the shadow move across the linoleum.

She flipped the switch.

A boy—skinny, dirt-smudged, eyes wide—stood with a piece of cornbread halfway to his mouth.

He flinched.

“Take the butter too,” she said, voice steady.

He blinked.

“Or sit. That chair’s not taken.”

He hovered, uncertain, then slid into the seat once reserved for her youngest son.

She placed the butter on the table. Poured him milk like it was any other night.

“Marcus,” he mumbled, almost ashamed.

She studied his face in the yellow light. Something in the shape of his eyes made her breath hitch.

He looked like her youngest—before the war, before the silence.

“You cold, Marcus?”

He nodded.

She stood, took the old quilt from the couch, and wrapped it around him.

The house, for a long time, had echoed with absence.

Now it breathed again.

The Gentle Hurt by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Literary Fiction / Lupus

 

The Gentle Hurt

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,219

Jada used to count hugs like stars—small, bright comforts scattered through her day. A good-morning squeeze from her mother, a quick, laughing embrace from her best friend, a warm wraparound from her little brother when she came home late—each one shimmered in her memory like constellations of love. Back then, touch meant safety. It meant being seen, held, and known.

But now, each embrace felt like glass pressed into her skin.

What once offered warmth now summoned a flinch. Even the gentlest touch seemed laced with a hidden threat, a question she didn’t want to answer. Her body, once open to affection, had learned a new language—one of bracing and retreat. Hugs weren’t comfort anymore; they were tests of endurance. She’d smile through them, arms stiff, breath held, waiting for it to be over.

She wasn’t sure when it had changed—only that it had. Maybe it was after the silence between her and her father grew too wide to cross. Or after the betrayal of someone who said he loved her but only loved control. Whatever it was, it left a residue. Now, closeness scraped instead of soothed.

She missed the girl who counted stars.

The morning sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, bathing the room in a soft gold glow. Jada sat on the edge of her bed, her body still and stiff, as if molded in wax overnight. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her robe, the motion sending a sharp jolt through her shoulder.

Downstairs, the aroma of cinnamon toast drifted up. James was cooking again. Ever since the diagnosis, he’d taken to making breakfast every morning, a kind of quiet rebellion against the helplessness he felt. He never said it aloud, but she saw it in the way he hovered, the way his brow furrowed each time she winced.

“Good morning, baby,” he said when she entered the kitchen, a soft smile on his lips. His arms opened without thinking—an invitation that used to be second nature.

She flinched. Just slightly, like a bird sensing a sudden gust of wind.

His arms paused mid-air.

She forced a smile. “Morning.”

“I made your favorite,” he said, slowly letting his arms fall. He busied himself with the toaster, pretending not to notice the space between them.

The silence stretched. Not awkward—just unfamiliar. Like walking into your childhood home and finding the furniture rearranged.

They used to hug all the time. Before. After. During anything. Long hugs, tight ones. Hugs that squeezed the breath out of you. But lupus didn’t just attack her joints—it snuck into her relationships, too. Every time she cried out from a touch meant to comfort, it etched a deeper line between love and pain.

Later that day, her niece Leila came over, bouncing into the living room like a burst of energy. Seven years old and all limbs and questions.

“Auntie Jada!” she squealed and ran forward.

Jada braced herself.

Leila wrapped her arms around Jada’s waist, pressing her cheek into her belly. Jada’s teeth clenched as pain shot through her ribs. Still, she kept her hands gently on Leila’s back, stroking slowly, pretending.

“You okay, Auntie?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

But later, in the bathroom, she locked the door and leaned over the sink, her breath coming in tight gasps. Her ribs throbbed. Not from the force—Leila had barely touched her—but from the betrayal of her own body.

That night, James tried again.
They sat on the couch, a cushion of silence between them, the flickering TV casting pale shadows across their faces. The documentary played on—something about ancient ruins or endangered birds—neither of them truly watching. The screen was just a distraction, a safe backdrop for the distance they were trying not to name.

His fingers brushed hers.
She didn’t pull away this time.

It was the first contact in days that hadn’t been accidental or carefully avoided. The barest touch, but it lingered.

“I miss hugging you,” he said finally, the words quiet, almost fragile.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her silence already carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things—the tension that curled in her shoulders, the way her eyes never quite met his anymore, the way she breathed like she was always bracing for impact.

“I feel like I’m not allowed to touch you anymore.”
His voice cracked around the word allowed, as if the intimacy they used to share had become forbidden territory.

“It’s not you,” she whispered.
But the words felt like they were trying to convince both of them.

“I know,” he said. “But it still feels like punishment.”

She turned toward him slowly, as though every movement required effort. “You think I don’t want to be held? That I don’t dream of it?”

He blinked, startled by the ache in her voice.

“Do you know what it’s like,” she continued, her throat tightening, “to fear the very thing that used to make you feel safe? To want someone’s arms around you and flinch when they try?”

His mouth opened, then closed again. What words could he offer to answer pain he couldn’t touch?

He reached out—not to hug, not to fix, but to offer his hand.
An invitation, not a demand.

She looked at it for a long moment. Then, with trembling fingers, she took it.

Their palms pressed together, tentative at first, then tighter. Their fingers laced, anchoring them to the present, to each other.

They sat in silence, not needing to fill it. It wasn’t a hug, but it was something.
A tether. A promise. A fragile bridge between what was and what might still be possible.

Weeks passed. They adapted. The rhythm of their lives shifted—quietly, without ceremony, like furniture slowly rearranged in the night. He stopped reaching for her hand without thinking. Instead, he kissed her forehead, a soft promise that asked for nothing in return.

He learned to read the days with careful eyes: the ones when she winced at sunlight, when even the softest thread of a blanket felt like fire. On those days, he stayed close but not touching, his presence a silent offering.

Other days were better. On those, she allowed his arm to drape gently around her shoulders, their bodies barely touching, as though even kindness had to tiptoe. They held their breath together—her, hoping her body wouldn’t betray her with a sudden ache; him, praying his love wouldn’t become another burden she had to carry.

And then there were the rare, golden days, when the pain seemed to loosen its grip. She would sigh, lean into him slowly, carefully, as if testing a truce. Her head would rest against his chest, her voice a whisper against his shirt: “Don’t squeeze. Just stay.”

He always did.

It wasn’t perfect. There were still sharp edges and unspoken grief, the quiet mourning of a life redefined. But it was real—rooted in patience, in choosing each other without the fanfare of romance novels.

And in that steadiness, in the small, sacred acts of accommodation and understanding, the hurt softened. Not gone, not forgotten. Just... bearable.

Because love, when it doesn’t try to fix or rescue, but simply remains, has a way of making even pain feel a little less cruel.

When Death Knocks Twice and You Refuse to Answer by Olivia Salter / Literary Poetry

When Death Knocks Twice and You Refuse to Answer

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 274

The first time, he came as a whisper—
a creak in the floorboards,
a shadow flickering in the corner of my eye.
I thought it was the wind.
But the wind doesn't sigh like that.

I turned my face to the sun.
"I'm not done," I said,
clutching the thread
of one more day with my laugh
still echoing down the hall.

He left without protest,
only a glance—
not cruel, not kind—
as if to say,
You'll remember me later.

And I did.
He returned not in shadow
but in the mirror—
in the gray under my eyes,
in my mother's hand trembling
when she passed me the salt,
in the silence
that pressed against my ribs
while the world kept spinning.

He knocked again.
Harder.
This time, with names:
Jerome.
Aunt Vi.
Even the baby we never met.

But I stood still,
not with anger,
but with fire.
"There are stories left in me," I said,
"and a garden in the back
that still needs planting.
There's a boy I haven't forgiven
for leaving without goodbye,
and a prayer I owe my father
before the light fades."

He waited—
and walked away.
No slam.
No scorn.
Just the echo
of my breathing
filling the room like promise.

And I,
more alive than ever,
held on.
Not for fear—
but for the unfinished
love still growing
beneath my ribs.

Each morning, I rise
with the sun's gentle touch,
carrying memories
like stones in my pocket,
reminders of paths yet to tread.

When death knocks again,
he'll find me dancing
in the rain's embrace,
singing songs of those I've loved,
refusing still to answer.