There was a finality in her posture, a resignation that didn’t belong to childhood.
The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant reminder of where we were and why.
I wanted to reach out, to pull her into an embrace, to tell her it was going to be okay.
But I couldn’t bring myself to lie to her.
Not when I wasn’t sure of the truth myself.
Instead, I sat in the uncomfortable silence, each minute stretching longer than the one before.
We were in limbo, caught between the life we had known and the uncertainty of what came next.
And as the night wore on, I realized that nothing would ever be the same again.
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