I'm pacing the small waiting room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The faint smell of antiseptic lingers in the air, mixing with the low murmur of voices from the hallway. Hospitals always feel heavy, like the walls carry the weight of a thousand unsaid goodbyes. I try to steady my breathing, but it's impossible. Gabe's call still rings in my ears.
"They found something," he'd said, his voice tight but calm. "My dad's getting more tests done, but it looks like you were right."
I didn't even think. I grabbed my coat, my keys, and drove straight here. Now, sitting feels unbearable, and the minutes crawl like hours as I wait for him to show up.
When Gabe walks through the doors, his presence fills the space instantly. He looks tired, his usually brilliant gray eyes shadowed, his jaw clenched, but when his gaze finds mine, there's a flicker of relief.
