“I know.”
“You stopped asking.”
“I know.”
“And when I got tired of being the sad thing in the room, you called it peace.”
I looked at her then, because I owed her enough respect not to turn away.
“I was a coward,” I said.
Her eyes welled.
“Yes.”
One word.
No malice.
No drama.
Only the truth.
The nurse came back with discharge instructions and a sheet for the follow-up appointment.
Emily reached for the papers, but her hand trembled.
I took them instead.
Not because she could not manage.
Because I was there.
Because for once, I could do the simple thing in front of me instead of hiding inside the complicated thing behind it.
I read through the medication schedule.
I checked the appointment date.
I asked the nurse which number we should call if her symptoms became worse.
Emily watched me with a look I could not quite understand.
Maybe distrust.
Maybe fatigue.
Maybe the tiniest form of hope, the kind people are too afraid to name.
When it was time to go, she insisted she could walk.
She lasted five steps before I saw her sway.
I did not grab her.
I did not cause a scene.
I simply stepped beside her and offered my arm.
For a moment, she stared at it.
Then she held on.
We made our way slowly down the corridor.
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