"You know what stage?"
I nod frantically. "Three. She was supposed to have chemo on Tuesday. She—she only had two more left."
"101.6 and climbing," Mary reports. "White count's probably bottomed out."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut.
"Page oncology," Dr. Rashid orders. "Full septic workup—blood cultures, urine, chest x-ray. Broad-spectrum antibiotics. IV fluids. Get her stabilized and isolated. Move!"
They wheel her toward the hallway, and my body moves automatically to follow, tethered to her—but Dr. Rashid steps into my path and gently stops me with a hand to my shoulder.
"We have it from here," he says, and his dark brown eyessoften. "We're going to take good care of your wife, sir."
Wife.
The word hits me in the chest like a shotgun blast, knocking the air from my lungs. The future I've been building in my head for months—marriage, a home, sunsets, maybe kids someday—dangles on the edge of a cliff, out of my reach.
Sophie Rhodes.
"I—I—please," I beg, my voice cracking, watching as she disappears into the back. My words are soaked in grief, in guilt, in desperation. "Please tell me she's gonna be okay. I should've brought her in earlier. I should've known. I should've—fuck, I shouldn't have waited, I thought it was just a cold—I didn't think—I didn't think—"
"It's okay," another nurse—Leah from the name on her badge—soothes me. She's older, maternal, with kind green eyes, and she lays a firm hand on my arm. I finally notice that I'm dripping rainwater on the floor in the middle of the hospital, "We'll take care of your wife. But we need you to breathe, and we need you to fill out some paperwork while Dr. Rashid stabilizes her. Nurse Mike will stay with you."
"Please," I whisper, voice breaking. "Please take care of her. She's... she's everything to me."
"Dr. Rashid is one of the best. She's in great hands," she says, before motioning toward a younger male nurse next to me—Nurse Mike—who calmly smiles at me. He lays a hand on my back, guiding me back to the front.
They give me a bunch of paperwork on a clipboard to fill out for her. My legs are completely numb as I sit down in an uncomfortable chair, the words on the page blurring in and out of focus.
"Callum," I glance up at my name and see my mom rushing over to me.
"Mom," my voice cracks in half as I stand up, clipboard fallingto the ground, and I collapse in her arms.
She holds me tightly, her small frame absorbing every tremor shaking my body. I feel like a child again, crying into my mom's arms after kids at school bullied me, crying after the Lauren incident, where I wondered why I was so odd, why the world seemed cruel, and if things would ever get better.
This, though, feels a thousand times worse.
"Sophie..." I choke out. "Mom, it's my fault—she's sick, and—and I didn't—"
I sob, the sound loud and broken and ugly, and I don't care that I'm breaking open in the middle of this crowded waiting room. My mom squeezes me tighter, gently running her hand up and down my back to soothe me, just like she did when I was a kid.
I don't care that people are openly gawking at me. I don't care that people are looking at me with pity-filled eyes.
I only care about Sophie—my girl, my entire heart—somewhere behind those closed doors, fighting to stay alive.
I can't lose her, not like this, not when we just started.
I'm not ready.
She's not ready.
I lost my dad, and that devastated me.
If I lose Sophie...
I don't think I can come back from that.
"Storms always pass, sweetest heart. We just have to hold on."
