The hospital waiting room smells like industrial cleaner and bad decisions. I'm perched on one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs designed by someone who clearly hates humanity, still wearing my jeans and team jacket from the hasty change in the car.
We'd pulled into a random parking garage, and I'd scrambled into street clothes while Mom kept watch, both of us pretending this was normal. Maddie's phone is a live grenade in my hand.
I keep checking the screen every thirty seconds in case David or Hanna call back, in case there's news, in case something—anything—breaks this terrible silence.
My mother sits beside me, her hand occasionally squeezing my knee in that universal maternal gesture that means I'm here but I have no idea what to say.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead like mechanical bees. A TV in the corner plays some medical drama with the volume too low to hear, which feels both ironic and deeply inappropriate.
The clock on the wall ticks forward with aggressive slowness. Each minute stretches into an hour. I count tiles on the floor—sixty-three from my chair to the nurses' station.
Then I count them again. Still sixty-three. The universe remains unchanged by my desperate need for distraction.
"Sweetheart, do you want some water?" Mom asks for the third time. "Or coffee? There's a vending machine down the hall."
"I'm fine." I'm not fine. I'm the opposite of fine. I'm whatever word exists at the far end of the spectrum from fine, probably in a language I don't speak.
"Emily—"
"Mom, please." My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "I just need to sit here. I need to wait."
She nods and goes quiet again. Her hand finds my knee once more, steady and warm. I want to apologize for snapping but the words won't come.
Everything feels stuck—my throat, my thoughts, my entire ability to function like a normal human being.
Time performs some kind of cruel magic trick, simultaneously crawling and racing. Every minute feels like it contains multiple lifetimes.
I watch an old man shuffle to the vending machine and back. A couple argues quietly in Spanish near the bathroom.
Somewhere down the hall, a baby cries. The world keeps moving while mine has completely stopped.
When the nurse finally emerges through the double doors, I'm on my feet before my brain catches up with my body.
Maddie's phone drops from my hand. Mom catches it reflexively, which is good because I've apparently forgotten how basic motor skills work.
"Family of Madison Reyes?" The nurse's voice is professionally calm, like she announces devastating news several times per shift.
"Her parents are on their way," I blurt out, already moving toward her. "They're driving here now, they were an hour away when—they should be here soon. I'm her roommate. I have her phone in case they call. I'm Emily. Emily Harper."
The nurse studies me with the kind of assessing look that suggests she's mentally categorizing my relationship to the patient.
Roommate? Friend? Girl having a complete breakdown in the waiting room? All of the above?
"Ms. Reyes has been asking for you specifically," she says after a pause that lasts approximately seventeen years.
"You can go back for a few minutes until her parents arrive. Just a few minutes, understand?"
"Yes. Yes, absolutely. Thank you." I'm nodding too much, too fast, probably looking completely unhinged. I don't care.
Mom squeezes my hand before I can disappear through those double doors. "I'll be right here," she says, pressing Maddie's phone back into my palm. "Go. She needs you."
The hallway beyond the waiting room is blindingly white and smells like antiseptic. My sneakers squeak against the linoleum as I follow the nurse through a maze of identical corridors.
She doesn't speak. I don't either. My heart is performing gymnastics routines in my chest that would score solid tens across the board.
The nurse stops at a door, pushes it open, gestures me inside. "Just a few minutes," she reminds me, but I'm already crossing the threshold and nothing she says can pull me back now.
Maddie lies in the hospital bed with her leg elevated and wrapped in so much bandaging it looks like a prop from a disaster movie.
The fluorescent lighting washes out her normally golden skin to a pale gray that makes my stomach drop.
Her dark hair spreads across the pillow in tangles, and her eyes—when they find mine—are glassy and unfocused from whatever drugs they've pumped into her system.
She sees me. The tears come immediately, spilling down her cheeks in silent streams. Relief and terror war across her face in equal measure.
I don't remember crossing the room. One second I'm in the doorway, the next I'm at her bedside, and her hand shoots out to grab mine with desperate strength.
Her fingers lock around my wrist like I'm the only thing tethering her to reality. "How bad is it?" The question comes out rough, my throat tight.
"They're waiting on the detailed imaging results." Maddie's voice is slurred, the words sliding together at the edges. "But the doctor said—he said there might be surgery. Weeks of recovery. Maybe months before I can skate again. Maybe—" Her voice breaks. "Maybe longer."
I watch her process what she's just said. Watch the reality of it slam into her like a physical blow. Her season is over.
Everything she's worked for, everything she's sacrificed, all the mornings at four AM and nights practicing until her ankles ached and her muscles screamed—gone. Finished. Done.
"Everything hurts," Maddie whispers, fresh tears tracking down her face. "My ankle, my chest, my heart. Everything."
I sit carefully on the edge of the bed, terrified of jostling her injured leg. My free hand reaches up, stroking her hair back from her forehead in gentle, repetitive motions. "I'm here," I tell her, because it's the only true thing I can offer. "I'm right here."
"I'm so scared." The words come out barely audible. "Emily, I'm so scared."
"I know. I know you are." I keep stroking her hair, my thumb tracing small circles against her temple. "But I promise you're not going through this alone. I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'm not leaving."
Maddie's medication-heavy eyes focus on my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
She says my name like a prayer, like an invocation, like I'm something holy instead of just a girl sitting beside a hospital bed holding her hand too tight.
Her hand slides up my arm—slow, deliberate motion despite the drug haze clouding her thoughts.
Her fingers find my shoulder and she pulls, drawing me closer. Her eyes drop to my lips. The intention is crystal clear even through the pharmaceutical fog.
She starts to lean up, her other hand reaching for my face. Every muscle in my body locks.
I'm frozen between wanting to comfort her and knowing we can't do this—not here, not now, not with nurses who could walk in and parents who are driving here and a world that still doesn't know what we are to each other.
But Maddie keeps pulling me closer. Her hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin. She's almost close enough to kiss. Another inch and I won't be able to stop this. Another inch and I won't want to.
The door opens.