Jefferson sits next to you in the shitty hospital chair. His hand caresses your back in slow, large circles.

It’s been hours and you’re still in pain, despite the morphine.

Well, you’ve had the headaches longer than hours. More than days, even.

You got so frustrated that you handed in your phone and electronic devices, the remote to your lights, and drank a ton of water to prove that the reoccurring pains aren’t something superficial. They still didn’t listen.

It got to a point that you wouldn’t even walk. You’d end up clutching your head, vision too disturbed and clouded with static that you’d just wobble.

Miles got so fed up with them that he ended up shouting at them and that snapped them out of their autopilot state. They finally saw how miserable you were.

It’s too late. The doctors are still running so many tests. They even took a spinal tap and now all you two can do is wait for the results.