I see the great escape So long, Daisy May I picked the petals, he loves me not Something different bloomed Writing in my room I play my songs in the parking lot I'll run away

From sprinkler splashes to fireplace ashes I called a taxi to take me there I search the party of better bodies Just to learn that my dreams aren't rare

She didn't feel good.

It wasn't a sudden illness, and it wasn't anything like the hallucinations and initial seizure that my body had; instead, it was progressive. It crept up on me slowly, as a virus or an infection might. The shivers ripped through her skin in the mornings, and the chilly shivery perspiration was aggressive throughout the night. Her bones hurt, and her mind felt sluggish and heavy. The physician diagnosed it as stress, explaining that witnessing a suicide was a horrific experience and that since they hadn't found anything in her blood when they tested her the previous time, all she needed to do was keep hydrated and relax.

However, she was mistaken, and something needed to be corrected.

This wasn't stressful. It wasn't because she was sad or scared. She was sick. She could feel it from her ponytail to her toes, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She knew depression, anxiety, and stress because they were all a part of her language and her genetic makeup. But this wasn't stressful. It wasn't because she was sad or scared. She was sick.

So Betty Cooper behaved in a manner consistent with her character.

She was able to keep it all hidden.

She concealed the bags beneath her eyes with a soft, light concealer. She buried her aching limbs behind cardigans. She hid her headaches within bottles of ibuprofen. She hid her nervous fingers in Jughead's black waves. She hid her headaches inside bottles of aspirin.

She was aware that she would not be able to deceive everyone for very long, but while her mother was preoccupied with the farm and Veronica was attempting to get Archie out from prison, it became more straightforward for her to conceal the fact that she was ill. On some days, all she needed to do was lie down, shut her eyes, and hope that when she opened them again, she would be able to feel her legs again. The plan called for her to get up, take her medication, go to school, make progress on the case, have dinner with Polly and her mother, and then lock herself away until the hammering in her head stopped and the nausea faded. The most terrifying aspect was when she would have mini seizures, which would last for no more than ten seconds at most and consist of shaking convulsions that would come and go, leaving her thoroughly shaken and terrified. Everything else was effortless to hide, but she was unable to conceal the seizures.

And, of course, she was never able to keep anything from Jughead Jones completely hidden.

Three weeks had passed since that night at the hospital, and Jughead was dealing with it the same way that Betty had been: by burying himself in work until it became easier to forget, until he could no longer see his dead corpse limping five stories down in the hospital parking lot. They were huddled together in a Pop's booth, with papers strewn in front of them and Jughead's never-ending cups of coffee perched precariously on the edge of the table. She could feel it coming on: the acceleration of her pulse rate and the appearance of perspiration on her hands caused her to lose her balance and fall out of the booth. She mumbled something to Jughead as she made her way to the swinging front door. As the clock ticked closer to midnight, she sought solace in the peace and privacy of the night.

She dropped herself to the ground and allowed the convulsions to wrack her body, letting the force cause her eyes to roll back in her head. It felt like pins and needles were being poked into her flesh. She was exhausted, and her muscles hurt; she vaguely registered the sting of blood in her mouth, as biting her tongue was typically the first thing that came with the seizure. Despite the fact that it was over before it started, there was no way she could stand. She was exhausted, and her muscles hurt. Before she saw them, she heard the heavy combat boots, and the darkness of the parking lot was replaced by the individuals' horrified and worried blue eyes.

"Betts." "Betts.. what's... what's going on?" he hushed, his hands gently cupping her cheeks as his fingers caressed her silky skin gently and soothingly. She could see the remorse and Gutteral terror reflected in his eyes, and it was almost as if her suffering had been transferred to him.

"I'm okay." She mumbled, eyes fluttering closed. "I'm... I'm okay."

Jughead shook his head, slipped over to sit next to her, and pulled her in as close as he possibly could.

"Betty, you're not. No, you're not. You just had another seizure; you told me you felt good... I thought the doctor had said to you that you would be fine?" He wasn't accusing her, and he wasn't angry; he was simply terrified, as she could see by the fact that he was attempting to maintain a level tone in his voice. So was she, and she was darn weary of concealing it.

"I went back, and the doctor advised me to simply rest, drink some water, and assured me that everything would be great, but it wasn't. I'm not alright, Jughead.. something's wrong... I am in agony all the time. Some days, I can't even get out of bed without feeling as if the whole world is spinning on its axis, and I don't know how to stop it. There's nothing I can do. " Finally, the tears started to fall, and they were big, raindrop-shaped ones that ran down her cheeks and soaked the leather jacket that Jughead was wearing. His hands pulled her in closer as he rubbed circular motions into the soft cotton of her Riverdale High School jacket.

"We are going to work this out, and we are going to go to a different doctor. If that's what it takes, I'll give you a ride to Greendale every single day, even if it's 10 times a day. I'm not going to let you suffer for quite longer. Betty, you have to tell me whatever it is, because I have to know it no matter what it is. Remember that we are a team and that we are in this together, no matter how great or how little the challenge may be. And this one is quite huge, but it's nothing that we can't manage. We solve murders, Betty. We will make you better," it was a promise, his heavy deep voice lifting her anxiousness and pouring over her lean body, but yet... she couldn't help but feel like she was going to die.

"I want to believe you, Jug, but with everything that's going on right now, we really don't have time to think about this; we're right in the thick of an investigation," she said. She heaved a sigh as she became acutely aware, for the very first time, that they were standing quite uncomfortably close to the garbage can. Jughead was the one who helped them both get-up, his fingers gently pulling her chin higher so that she could gaze into his eyes.