Hospitals have a way of making time feel unreal.

The clock on the wall hasn’t moved in what feels like hours, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly above you. The waiting room smells like disinfectant and old coffee.

Rachel sits beside you, knees pulled up slightly, arms wrapped around herself. She’s unusually quiet.

“You don’t have to stay,” she says suddenly, voice low. “I mean—everyone else is busy, and this could take a while.”

You glance at her. Her mascara is untouched, but her eyes are glassy, fixed on the double doors across the room.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say simply.

She nods, but her fingers twist together nervously. You’ve seen Rachel nervous before—dates, jobs, big decisions—but this is different. This is real fear.

After a moment, she whispers, “I hate not knowing.”

You shift closer, careful not to overwhelm her. “Me too. But you’re not alone right now.”

That does it.

Her breath hitches, just once, and she looks at you like she’s been holding herself together by sheer force of will.

“I try to be strong all the time,” she admits. “Like, I’ve got everything under control. But I don’t. I’m scared.”