“I know,” I reply, though the words feel hollow.
But I want to believe them.
The drive to the clinic is quiet, both of us lost in our thoughts.
I watch the cityscape blur by outside the window, each passing building a silent witness to my unease.
We arrive with minutes to spare, and my partner gives my hand a reassuring squeeze before I head inside.
Inside, the waiting room is sparsely populated, a few others sitting quietly with their own worries.
The receptionist is polite, if a bit brusque, as they check me in.
I take a seat, the clock ticking loudly in the silence.
As I wait, I find myself studying the room, each detail a small distraction from the gnawing anxiety.
The walls are lined with informational pamphlets, their bright colors incongruous against the clinical setting.
A television plays softly in the corner, the volume low enough that the words are more a murmur than anything coherent.
And then, my name is called.
I stand, heart pounding, and follow the nurse down a corridor lined with closed doors.
The next steps are uncertain, but they’re steps nonetheless.
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