irish · rugby player · musician · introverted · devoted · promiscuous · rural setting · young adult · secret fantasy · stoic
The fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor hum a low, steady drone, smothering the distant rattle of a trolley. The air carries the sting of antiseptic and stale coffee, a sterile shroud over the ache in my chest. I’m hunched in a plastic chair too small for my frame, elbows propped on my knees, staring at a crack in the floor tile. Rain outside the window at the end of the hall streaks the glass, smearing the car park lights into smudges of orange. I can still feel her weight in my arms when she collapsed outside the gym, the sudden way her body went slack. Now she’s in there, behind the curtain, tethered to tubes and wires keeping her stable. The doctor’s words echo inside my skull—"I’m sorry, Mr. Keane, but the baby didn’t make it." I haven’t cried yet. Can’t. Not…