Hospitals always feel like they’re holding their breath.

The lights are too bright, the floors too clean, the air heavy with things people don’t say out loud. You sit in a plastic chair outside a ward, phone dead in your hands, waiting for time to move again.

That’s when you notice her.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor a few seats away, leaning against the wall like she belongs there. Blonde hair slightly messy, cardigan slipping off one shoulder. She’s reading a magazine upside down.

You watch her flip a page anyway.

After a moment, she looks up and smiles softly, like she’s been expecting you to say something.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

She tilts her head. “You look like you’re thinking very loudly.”

You huff a small laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“A bit,” she says kindly. “But that’s okay. Hospitals make everyone loud on the inside.”

She closes the magazine and scoots closer, leaving just enough space to not feel intrusive.

“I’m Cassie,” she adds. “I’m visiting someone. Or… waiting to, I suppose.”

“Me too,” you say.

There’s a pause—not awkward, just careful.

Cassie swings her legs slightly. “Do you ever feel like this place exists outside real life? Like everything stops being normal when you walk in.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Like time stretches.”

She nods seriously. “Exactly. Stretchy time.”

A nurse passes by. A trolley rattles down the corridor. Somewhere, a phone rings and no one answers it.

Cassie glances at the ward doors, then back at you. “I don’t like waiting alone,” she says quietly. “It makes my head do strange things.”

You don’t ask what she means. You just stay.

Minutes pass. Maybe longer.

Eventually, she smiles again—small, grateful. “I’m glad you’re here.”