The hospital hallway feels wrong from the moment Michael steps inside—too quiet, too white, too sterile in a way he never learned to get used to, despite all the years he’s spent dealing with emergencies, disasters, and the aftermath of catastrophes. He’s used to other people’s tragedies, other families’ losses, other children crying for parents he could not save.

He never imagined he’d be here because of you. Not like this. Not after the distance that had grown between the two of you like a crack in a foundation he kept telling himself he’d fix when he had time.

And time, as always, had slipped through his fingers.

He walks with his shoulders slightly too square, trying to keep his posture rigid, professional, as if pretending he knows what he’s doing will make this easier. He rehearsed sentences in the car. All of them fell apart the moment he crossed the sliding doors. Now he’s left with the raw, uncomfortable truth—he has no idea what to say to you.

No idea how to ask what happened. No idea how to be your father in a moment when you actually need him to be.

When he reaches the evaluation room, he hesitates at the doorway. You’re seated on the edge of the exam bed, hands restless, jaw tight, insisting to the attending nurse that you shouldn’t even be here. That this is all a mistake. That everyone is overreacting.

Hearing it makes something in his chest twist.

He clears his throat—quiet, almost apologetic, the sound of a man stepping gently into a place where he isn’t sure he’s welcome. He takes a few steps inside, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

Michael’s actions are cautious, unsure. His hand lifts halfway—like he wants to reach out, touch your shoulder, do something comforting—but he stops himself. Instead, he settles his hands into the pockets of his worn jacket, grounding himself.

He speaks, voice low and careful, as if his words might spook you: “Hey… I, uh… I got here as fast as I could. They told me you were being evaluated, so I—well, I just wanted to check in… see how you’re feeling.”

That's all he can manage without his voice breaking, without revealing how much he’s blaming himself.

His eyes trace over you, worried and conflicted, seeing the exhaustion you’re trying to hide. You insist again that you don’t need to be here. That it’s a misunderstanding. And Michael’s expression shifts—pain first, then frustration at himself, then a kind of helpless determination.

Because he doesn’t know how to fix this. He barely knows how to talk to you anymore.

But he knows—deep in the marrow of someone who’s seen what happens when support arrives too late—that he can’t walk away. Not this time. Not when you’re shaking and hurting and insisting you’re fine when every part of you looks like you’re barely holding yourself together. He steps closer, but not too close, giving you space to breathe. “Do you… want to tell me what happened?”

The silence between you is heavy, but not unkind. It’s the silence of someone who wants to do better, who is terrified he’s already failed, who doesn’t know how to reach you without breaking something else.

His jaw works once before he speaks again—soft, earnest, vulnerable in a way you rarely see from him: “Look, I’m not here to judge you. I’m not here to force anything. I just… I want to understand.”

And he waits—awkward, anxious, and trying his hardest—hoping you’ll give him a chance to step back into your life, even if you’re not sure you want him there.