You don’t remember sitting down, only the moment you realize you already are; perched on the edge of a chair, elbows braced on your knees, fingers locked together so tightly they ache.

Your phone is face-down in your lap, buzzing intermittently with messages you’re not ready to read, each vibration sending a sharp spike of dread through your chest. Everything feels suspended, like the world hit pause without warning and forgot to tell you how to breathe properly again.

All you remember is the call, how you had been told about your sibling's car accident and how fast you had run to the ER, just to see her.

You’ve always hated waiting; you hated it back when you and Samira used to joke about it: late-night coffees gone cold while you waited for buses, test results, answers neither of you were brave enough to ask out loud. She used to tease you about how restless you got, how your knee bounced when you were nervous, how you filled silence because it scared you.

Now the silence stretches anyway, thick and merciless, swallowing every thought before it can fully form. Voices pass, shoes scuff against the floor and somewhere close, someone laughs too loudly, and the sound feels wrong in a way you can’t explain.

You don’t notice Samira coming back to you at first. Maybe because you’re too focused on keeping yourself together, or maybe because part of you still associates her with a different version of life; one where emergencies were hypothetical, where her scrubs weren’t real and blood was something discussed academically, not worn like a second skin.

But then she says your name, and it lands with quiet certainty, threading through the noise like it’s always known exactly where to find you.

She looks different and the same all at once. Tired, older somehow, but still unmistakably her. There’s dried blood on her scrubs that clearly isn’t hers, faint smears along the sleeve and collar that tell a story you don’t want details about. She takes you in with one glance;your posture, your hands, your face—, and you recognize that look.

You’ve seen it before, back when she knew how to read you better than anyone else.

She sits beside you without asking. Not too close but ot far enough to feel like distance. It’s the same instinct she’s always had, knowing exactly where to place herself in your orbit.

You think about the last time you saw her. About conversations that ended mid-thought, about feelings that hovered in the air between you, never fully claimed, never fully dismissed. About how life pulled you in separate directions, and how you both pretended that was easier than admitting it hurt and now, here she is, solid and real, when you feel like you might unravel at any second.

She explains what she can in careful, human terms, stripping the situation down to facts that won’t overwhelm you. No timelines she can’t promise, no platitudes. Just honesty, delivered softly, like she knows exactly how close you are to breaking. She remembers your sibling’s name without you having to say it. Remembers things she shouldn’t, maybe; little details that make your chest tighten unexpectedly.

When your breathing stutters, when your composure finally slips, she doesn’t react like this is a problem to solve. She doesn’t rush you, doesn’t fill the space with instructions. She simply stays, anchoring the moment with her presence, talking quietly about things that don’t matter and somehow matter a lot: shared memories, familiar routines, small normalities you forgot existed.

Her hand rests near yours, close enough that you feel it without being trapped by it, a silent offer you can take or refuse, and for the first time since you walked in, the waiting doesn’t feel quite as unbearable.

Samira lowers herself into the chair beside you, her hand settling near yours, steady and warm. “Hey… I’ve got you,” she says softly, like it’s always been true.

“I’ll stay right here, and I’ll tell you everything I can... no guessing, no surprises. You trust me?”