She swallows hard before smiling. “But you’re such a pain in the ass.”
I smirk as I grab my coffee and finish the last of it.
The hospital smells the same as it did yesterday. Bleach. Antiseptic. Sadness. It hits the back of my throat the moment the doors slide open. It’s the kind of smell that tells you nobody comes here for good reasons.
Lola walks next to me, her hands tucked into her hoodie sleeves, shoulders slightly hunched as if she’s bracing for a hit. As if the building itself might throw a punch at her.
Her hair is pulled into a loose braid down her back. It’s not neat. Strands fall freely around her face, soft against her skin. She has no gloss on her lips, no mascara darkening her lashes, and no effort to impress anyone.
She looks perfect. Real.
Her jaw is set in that stubborn way she does when she’s trying not to fall apart. Her fingers tighten inside the sleeves of her hoodie. I can see the tension in her even when she’s pretending she’s fine.
I want to reach for her hand, but I don’t. Instead, I walk close enough that our shoulders brush with each step.
We walk through the double doors into the ICU, toward Room 217.
Lola slows down as soon as we reach it.
Through the narrow glass window, I see her dad. Still hooked up to machines. Monitors that blink, hum, and track things nobody should have to think about.
We step inside.
A nurse stands beside the bed, adjusting something on the monitor. She looks up when we enter and offers a small smile.
“He’s been responding,” she says. “It’s early, but it’s promising.”
Lola goes completely still.
“You mean,” she says carefully, “he’s better today?”
The nurse nods. “We are reducing the sedation. His vitals are improving. His brain scans are showing progress. It is slow, but it’s good.” She moves over and writes something in a file. “He is not out of the woods yet.” She looks up, closes the folder. “There are no guarantees. But this is encouraging.”
Lola stares at her dad. Her hands tremble at her sides. I see it—the tiny shake in her fingers, the way her shoulders lift as if she forgot how to breathe.
“I thought,” she says, voice breaking, “I thought I would come in here today and it would be worse.”
Her eyes fill fast with tears.
I step closer on instinct but stop myself before I touch her.
The nurse exits, the door softly clicking shut with that gentle hospital politeness.
As Lola pulls the chair closer and sits beside her dad, I stay back, pressed against the wall. Arms folded, as if I belong in the shadows of this moment.
She takes his hand, her fingers curling around his as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And I feel it. That love. I have never seen anything like it. Love that’s big and steady.
I don’t understand this kind of love or what it’s like to sit beside someone and look at them as if losing them would rip your heart out. It makes me aware of every empty space in my own history.
“Hey,” she says softly. “You missed out on top-tier cuisine this morning.” Her thumb rubs over his knuckles. “I made toast. Burned it too. Even the coffee tasted like absolute shit.” Her voice wobbles, but she pushes through it. “You would have complained about it. Told me I should stick to cereal.” She lets out a laugh, but it’s not the usual one that I love. This one is strained. “I am scared,” she admits.
The words hit hard in the sterile room.
“I don’t know what I am doing without you.” Her grip tightens around his hand. “You better wake up soon because I cannot survive on toast.” She smiles. “I love you, Dad.” She rests her head on the back of his hand. “Please come back to me.”
Time moves differently in this room. The first hour crawls. The second one disappears entirely.
I stay against the wall while she talks to him. About school. About stupid shit that shouldn’t matter but somehow does. Her voice rises and falls. Sometimes she laughs. Sometimes she cries.
