I sit on the edge of the couch, my fingers clutching the thin fabric of the hospital gown, twisting it between my knuckles until the material creases and wrinkles beneath my touch. The room is too small for the weight pressing down on my chest, too quiet for the noise inside my head.
The doctor sits across from me, a polished wooden desk between us, her eyes fixed on the file in her hands. Her brow is furrowed, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Her face is serious, curious, and something else I can't name—something that makes my stomach tighten with dread.
Moon sits beside me like a guardian, like a parent waiting to hear news that will change everything. His leg is close enough to brush mine, his shoulder a solid presence in my peripheral vision. His face isn't nervous, but it isn't calm either. It's something in between—something held carefully in check, like a breath waiting to be released.
