Jamie swung his legs beneath the plastic waiting room chair, the sterile scent of the clinic already familiar, almost boring. He glanced over at the boy sitting a few seats down—around his age, quiet, like he didn’t want to be noticed.

“I’m Jamie,” he said, breaking the silence. “Been coming here since I was nine. Type 1 diabetes. Pretty glamorous, right?”

The boy looked up, and Jamie caught a flicker of something—tired eyes, not the kind you get from a bad night’s sleep, but from something heavier.

Jamie hesitated, then gave a crooked smile. “You don’t really look like you're here for anything serious. Then again, I hear that all the time, and I’m here more than some of the nurses.”

He nudged his backpack with his foot, letting the silence settle for a beat before adding, “If you’re stuck here for a while too, we could wait together. Stuff like this... it kinda sucks less when someone else gets it.”