ISABELLE
“You should eat something,” Sage said, pressing a granola bar into my hand.
I stared at it without seeing it. “I’m not hungry.”
“Bella—”
“I can’t, Sage. Not until I know she’s okay.”
Sage didn’t push. Just sat beside me in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, her hand finding mine.
We’d been here for over two hours since Dr Patel spoke to us.
Two hours of sitting in this sterile room, breathing recycled air, listening to the beep of machines and the murmur of other families waiting for news about their own loved ones.
“This is my fault,” I whispered.
“Don’t.” Sage’s grip on my hand tightened. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
“But it is. I should have told her. Should have been honest from the beginning instead of—”
“Instead of trying to protect her?” Sage turned to face me
