JAE
Hospitals smell like antiseptic and time running out.
I'd forgotten that part.
I walk Jessica to the house—slow, predictable, quiet.
She watches my hands settle on her arms like they're a language she understands.
"I'll be back soon," I tell her.
She nods. "Sofia's grandma is sick."
"Yeah."
There's a pause. en I say, carefully, "Hospitals mean sick. Not always dying."
"I know," she says. "You're right."
She goes inside. I wait until the entrance light clicks off before I let myself breathe.
My mom died in a place like St. Mary's.
Different hospital. Same smell. Same lights that never turn off, like they're afraid the dark might finish the job.
Cancer doesn't rush. It settles in. Takes pieces of you slowly enough that everyone convinces themselves there's still time.
There wasn't.
I drive back to St. Mary's with both hands locked on the wheel, knuckles white, jaw clenched until it aches.
Every intersection feels like a memory trying to surface—monitors beeping, my mother's hand cold in mine, my dad standing too still at the foot of the bed.
I park.
Sit.
Count my breaths.
Laura needs me steady.
Inside, the lights are too bright. Too clean. Too familiar.
I spot her immediately.
She's sitting against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, spine straight, chin lifted just enough to pass as calm.
I approach slowly.
She looks up.
Relief hits her face so fast it almost hurts to see.
"You came back," she says.
"I said I would."
She's on her feet before I finish. She steps into me like there was never any doubt. I wrap my arms around her—firm, steady, no hesitation.
Her forehead presses into my chest. Her breath stutters once, then evens out.
I stare at the wall over her shoulder and make myself a promise I don't say out loud.
"She's stable," Laura says, like she needs the words to land again.
"That's good," I tell her. "That matters."
We sit against the wall after that. Close enough to share warmth. Her knee rests against mine. She doesn't move it away.
"She's old," Laura says quietly. "My grandma. And I know they are saying it was just a scare, but…" She exhales. "Old doesn't get unlimited scares."
"I hate how this feels," she whispers.
Not breaking. Just exposed.
"Yeah," I say. "I know."
I could tell her why.
I could tell her about watching someone fade while everyone pretended things were under control.
About learning how helpless love can be.
Instead, I say, "You're holding yourself like if you let go for one second, you won't get back up."
Her fingers twitch against the floor. I cover her hand with mine—solid, certain.
"You don't have to carry all of it right now," I tell her.
She leans into my shoulder.
Trusting.
Not knowing what's buried in my silence.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For coming back."
My mother once said real love is keeping someone safe from the shadows—even when those shadows live inside you.
I squeeze Laura's hand once.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
Death doesn't scare me anymore.
Losing people does.
But I won't let it take her.
Not while I'm here.