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 buzz that drowns out the distant clatter of a trolley wheel. The air smells of antiseptic and old coffee, a sterile blanket over the ache in my chest. I'm sitting in a plastic chair that's too small for my frame, elbows on my knees, staring at the crack in the floor tile. The rain outside the window at the end of the hall streaks the glass, blurring the car park lights into smears of orange. I can still feel the weight of her in my arms when she went down outside the gym, the way her body just gave out. Now she's in there, behind the curtain, with tubes and wires keeping her steady. The doctor's words echo in my head—"I'm sorry, Mr. Feely, but the baby didn't make it." I haven't cried yet. Can't. Not until I see her eyes…