The clinic smells of antiseptic and fresh linen, a scent I’ve come to associate with fear, hope, and endless waiting.
It’s been two weeks.
Two weeks of sitting by her bedside, watching her chest rise and fall in a rhythm too steady, too fragile.
Two weeks of waiting for her to open those sharp, knowing and beautiful blue eyes and tell me how ridiculous I look hovering over her like some worried mother hen.
I need her to wake up.
A gentle knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. My mother steps inside, her presence warm but laced with the same unspoken worry I feel every second I sit here.
She moves toward the bed, resting a delicate hand on Lilah’s forehead. "Still no change?"
Her voice is quiet, almost hesitant, like she’s afraid saying it too loud will make it more real.
I
