“Just some tests.”
The lie was so fragile it nearly collapsed between us.
I reached for her hand.
It was freezing.
“Emily,” I said, “don’t lie to me.”
Her fingers shook once inside mine.
“I can see you’re not okay.”
A nurse passed by with a rolling cart.
Someone laughed behind a closed door.
The vending machine near the wall hummed, lighting rows of candy bars beneath plastic glare.
The hospital kept moving around us as if nothing had happened.
But my entire past was sitting in that chair, in a gown too large for her body, trying to hide a clipboard under a blanket.
For several seconds, Emily said nothing.
Then her lips parted.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she whispered.
That was the first thing she said.
Not I’m sick.
Not I need help.
Not I was scared.
She apologized for being seen.
That was when something inside me split completely.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
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