Meghan
The clock on the wall ticks steadily, each second dragging out the wait like a cruel punishment. I sit in the stiff, uncomfortable chair in Dr. Evans’ office, my hands gripping the cool armrests as though they can anchor me. The room feels too quiet, the air heavy with the faint smell of antiseptic. The fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, making the sterile white walls seem even more suffocating.
I glance at the desk in front of me, its surface unnervingly neat—no clutter, no coffee cup, nothing personal. Just a spotless clipboard and a computer monitor darkened to sleep mode. Even the potted plant in the corner looks as lifeless as I feel.
Hospitals have always unnerved me. The sharp tang of disinfectant in the air, the muted sound of nurses’ shoes squeaking on polished flo
