I woke up on the other bed, confused and groggy, unsure of how I had gotten there. The last thing I remembered was resting my head on Dad's shoulder, slowly drifting off. I must've dozed off completely in his arms.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim hospital room light, I glanced around slowly. The soft beeping of a monitor filled the silence, steady and rhythmic, but not at all comforting. My eyes settled on the bed across from me. There she was — Mom — lying still, pale, fragile, and silent, her body surrounded by wires and IV lines. The sight of her like that felt like a punch to my chest.
Dad was on the couch beside her, leaning forward, one hand resting gently on hers like he was willing his presence to pull her back. He looked worn out, drained — like he hadn't slept in days.
I walked over quietly, the floor cold beneath my feet. My heart thumped loudly in my chest as I approached Mom. I reached out, gently placing my hand on hers. It was warm but unmoving.
