ARIA
Hospitals smell like grief even when no one e is crying .
The antiseptic stings my nose as I step into dad's room. My sneakers squeaking softly against the polished floor. The beeping machines,the pale blue curtains ....they have become too familiar.
Dad lies in the narrow bed, thinner than he was a month ago.
I sink into the chair that has become way too familiar for my liking. hospital chairs had no business being called a recliners. It reclined the way my life did painfully, in slow increments, and never all the way back.
My lower back screamed from the awkward angle I'd contorted myself into, but I didn't dare shift too much. Not while Dad was finally asleep.
The nurse said he was sleeping, but not restful. It's the kind of dream that hoovers between dreams and letting go.
His breathing was shallow. Labored. A slow drag of air that sounded like sandpaper against stone.
Each breath could be the last.
I stared at the IV bag dripping medication into his veins. Painkillers, mostly. Nothing curative. The word "palliative" clung to me like a stain.
I hadn't cried since the doctor told me we were looking at "days, not weeks." I didn't have the luxury of falling apart.
Not when I was the only one left to hold anything together.
I glanced around the room, the hospital bills are tucked Inn my bag
I haven't opened them yet.I already know what they will say. More debt, More desperation.
I carefully rest my forehead against his hand."You can't leave me, I'm not ready, I will never be ready." I whispered.
He doesn't wake. The machine keep beeping.
I sit with him for hours.
Sometimes I talk about the weather, the café, even about Dalton Gray and his stupid perfect suits and the way he looks at me.
Anything to make this feel normal and distract me from emotional spiral.
Around 3:12 AM, the fluorescent lights above flickered. I blinked slowly, head pounding with exhaustion.
I hadn't eaten. I hadn't checked my sugar. I didn't care.
My phone buzzed. A message from the café manager.
"Let us know when you can resume. We'll keep you off the roster for now."
That was it. No sympathy. No hope your dad's okay. Just corporate coldness wrapped in faux professionalism.
I didn't reply.
I couldn't.
"Aria," Dad's voice rasped behind me.
I shot up from the chair like a shot. "I'm here."
He gave a faint smile, one eye barely opening. "Did you sleep?"
"No. Don't worry about that."
"You should eat something."
"Don't worry about that either." I tucked the blanket higher up his chest and adjusted the oxygen line.
His skin looked translucent under the hospital light. Like old parchment. Every vein stood out like a roadmap I was losing the ability to read.
"I dreamed of your mother last night," he murmured. "She was laughing. God, she had the best laugh, didn't she?"
My throat clenched. "She did."
"And Olivia…" He smiled faintly. "She was wearing that awful green scarf. Remember? The one she said brought her luck?"
I nodded, blinking fast. "Yeah. She wouldn't take it off for weeks. Even in summer."
His fingers twitched like he was reaching for something. Maybe memory. Maybe them.
"I don't want to leave you," he whispered.
"You're not," I said quickly. Too quickly. "Don't talk like that."
But we both knew it was a lie.
"I'm scared, baby." His voice cracked like a dry branch.
I broke.
Not all the way. But enough.
I reached up and touched his cheek with trembling fingers. "Me too."
We stayed like that until he drifted back into sleep.
I stared at him until the sun began to crawl up the edge of the sky, bleeding light into a world that didn't deserve it.
By 7:00 AM, I was outside his room, pacing in front of the nurses' station, my hair a tangled mess, still in yesterday's clothes.
The billing department called. Again.
$1,400 for the overnight stay.
$2,200 projected by end of the week.
Insurance? Denied. Out of network.
I hung up before the tears could fall.
At the vending machine, I stared at the candy bars like they were luxury items in a boutique.
Could I justify spending $1.50 on something to raise my sugar?
I pulled a glucose tab from my purse and chewed it like chalk. Problem solved.
Except nothing felt solved.
I pulled out my phone. Opened every job board I could think of. Searched "urgent hire," "overnight," "short term." Anything.
My vision blurred from the screen. I blinked until my eyes stung.
A security job. A night cleaner.
A personal assistant gig two hours away.
A live-in housekeeper.
But how could I leave Dad?
Maria..the nurse who takes care of Dad when I'm at work would stay during the day, sure but could she be trusted overnight?
Would he even make it through the week?
A sob threatened to crack open my ribs, but I swallowed it whole.
Around noon, the door to his room creaked open.
"Hey, sweetheart," Maria whispered, slipping in with a thermos of soup.
I smiled faintly. "Thank you."
She glanced at the machines, at the way my father was curled up, barely responsive. Her eyes grew misty.
"You're holding up well," she said gently.
"I don't have a choice."
She handed me the thermos and touched my arm. "You know if there's anything I can do…"
I nodded. I knew.
But there wasn't.
No one could give me time. Or money. Or a miracle.
Later, I sat at Dad's bedside, reading aloud from one of his old Western novels. He always loved cowboys. Rugged men. Justice and horses and campfire coffee.
His breathing steadied. Not better. Just steadier.
"I'm going to fix this," I told him softly. "I don't know how, but I will."
I pressed my forehead to his arm. "I don't want to say goodbye yet."
But goodbye was looming like a shadow at high noon.