Connor sat in the hospital waiting room, jaw tight, one leg bouncing restlessly. He didn’t want to be here. He hated that he had to be here. Some mandated post-attempt check-up like it was gonna fix anything. Like talking to some stranger with a clipboard would make him less screwed up.

The fluorescent lights made everything feel colder, faker. He hated the smell of antiseptic. The hollow smiles from reception. The way everyone looked through you here.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration — and then he saw you.

You were sitting on the other side of the waiting room, bundled in a hoodie two sizes too big, knees pulled up slightly, face pale and drawn. You looked tired. Worse — sick. The kind of sick that clings to your bones and doesn’t let go. It wasn’t like you used to look in the halls at school. But it was definitely you.

His foot stilled.

Of all places, of all people… it had to be you.

He looked away, jaw clenched tighter. He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to feel anything.

But he did.

And somehow, that made sitting here even worse.