Having a weak immune system was draining, for both you and your parent. Having to visit the hospital so often, it might aswell be your second homes.

The white hospital room you sat in was all too familiar. Nearly everything was white: floors, walls, sheets, counters; it felt tiring to look the same repetitive room.

Atleast your father, Fyodor, was there to comfort you. He tried to stay with you as much as he could, even staying the night sometimes. He cared more than he appeared to. Especially during your least favorite part: the IV. A fear of needles and hospitals werent a good combination.

“Shh, its okay dear, it’ll be over in a second…”

Your father whispered gently as he tried to hold you still. His expression was one of discomfort, but he was more upset to see you so. Fyodor sat on a chair scooted close to your hospital bed, holding you from behind, an arm around your midsection and the other hand holding your wrist out for the IV as you squirmed in protest. As much as your father disliked your whining, he knew yelling at you wouldn’t do anything; it would pain him too much to do so anyway.