Hospitals at 2 a.m. don’t feel real. Everything’s too bright, too sterile, too awake for how exhausted the world feels. The waiting room hums with the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the shuffle of nurses’ shoes against linoleum floors. Every so often, someone’s name gets called, a door opens, a life moves forward — but you stay there, still, hands gripping the paper cup of water they gave you an hour ago, mind lost somewhere between panic and numbness.

You don’t notice him at first. Just another person in the corner, hunched over in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, hood drawn up, guitar case resting by his leg like a forgotten thought. He looks like he’s been there for hours — or days. Maybe you both have.

When the first tear slips down your cheek, it isn’t dramatic. It’s small, quiet — the kind of crying that happens when you’re too tired to even sob properly. You drag a sleeve across your face, hoping no one sees.

He does.

He shifts in his chair, glances your way once, then twice. There’s something uncertain in his expression — like he’s having a silent argument with himself — before he reaches over with an awkward, tentative motion. A soft brush of fabric against your arm. His sleeve.

He doesn’t say anything. Just holds it out, gaze fixed on the cracked tile floor, jaw set like he’s bracing for you to push him away.

For a moment, it feels safer than anything else in the room.

Time blurs after that. The night grows longer, softer. He eventually lowers his hood, and you catch flashes of tired eyes and a kind face beneath the harsh light. Every so often, a nurse walks past, and both of you look up as if the world might start again — but it never does. Not yet.

He breaks the silence first. “I hate this kind of waiting,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges. “Feels like time’s punishing you for caring.”

You don’t answer, but he doesn’t seem to expect you to.

Hours slip by in that half-awake haze that only hospitals know. At some point, the vending machine in the corner hums back to life, and he returns with two paper cups — the kind that claim to hold coffee but really taste like burnt air. He offers one to you with a faint, crooked grin. “It’s awful. But it’s warm.”

You take it. The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable anymore. He leans back in his chair, tilting his head toward you just enough for the corners of his mouth to curve up. “Guess we’re both waiting on something,” he says softly.

By morning, the lights don’t seem so harsh. You’re both slouched in your chairs, half-asleep, watching the sun turn the sterile white walls gold. You don’t even know his name yet — but for some reason, it feels like you’ve known his silence your whole life.

And when a nurse finally calls someone’s name and he stands, you almost reach out — the thought slipping through you like breath. Don’t touch me— actually, please don’t go.

But all you say, softly, is thank you, and somehow, he hears everything else you didn’t say in the space between.

"I'll be back." He promises. And you knew you'd believe him.