- 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜/𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 -

𝟶𝟶𝟺.

∙ ⸰ ⊱ 𝚑𝚒𝚖 ⊰ ⸰ ∙
| ♫︎ 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚜 - 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 |

I'm only one step further from her, and I can't handle taking another. Each one brings me closer and closer to having my heart torn right in fucking two.

"Oh, I was just about to come look for you. Is everything alright?" Carly smiles, sliding her thumb along the smooth edge of her clipboard. Her smile isn't one of joy, and it definitely isn't meant to fill me one drop full of the damn emotion. It's based solely on instinct: you need to smile for those who can't.

I breathe out, detached from her concern, but the need to rid her of it still remains. "Yeah, I was just gonna go check on my mama."

"Oh, that's what I came to get you for." The woman's head dares to spin around towards the door behind her, but her eyes are all that have the courage to do so. "Your dad needs to talk to you."

My heart stops in my chest, ignoring my need for it to beat. I only nod as she places a hand on my shoulder, immediately lifting it as she walks past and leaves me with those dreadful letters lining the wall some feet behind me, spelling out Intensive Care.

I remember wanting to come down this way every time I had to work on site for my assignments, bored and nonetheless disgusted by general practice.

With this being a hospital on one of the many islands off the coast, a majority of the patients we get are older, finding retirement to be the best when you're separated from the mainland. The few that go into intensive care are usually people my age, finding risk to be the most fulfilling at their prime, so I was a lot more comfortable with talking to those suffering from near-fatal conditions. Despite their severe injuries or extreme intoxication, they joined in on conversations, with an occasional laugh here and there.

But now, I can only dream of examining Robert "Bob" So and So, age 83, for concerns regarding a region undisclosed. That is nothing compared to this—what I am facing now.

What I'm facing, it's completely beyond what I'm convinced I can handle. How in the absolute hell am I supposed to handle this?

I continue forward, entering the threshold of hell. The rubber soles of my scuffed and creased sneakers avoid the lines separating each white tile as I try to hold some power over the steps I'm taking. I know my behavior is immature, but I can't seem to fucking stop. I need to rid myself of any dread, but how can I if I'm headed straight for it—straight for something I may never walk out of?

"You can't just keep putting it off, Grisha. This is your wife's life we're talking about," Hannes' voice travels through the door, words of reason trying to break through my dad's strong exterior.