The Neighbor

Chapter 32

The next day, late morning sunlight creeps through the closed blinds, casting elongated shadows that dance across the hospital room. Wanda paces, her movements a dance of anxiety and anticipation, a physical manifestation of the turmoil churning within her. Each step is measured, her heels clicking softly against the linoleum, echoing the steady, frantic beat of her racing heart.

She pauses, her gaze drifting to the bed where you've been lying, its neat sheets a stark, silent testament to your absence. Her arms wrap around herself, as if trying to keep her breaking heart contained, her composure fraying at the edges. Her eyes, red and weary from sleepless vigils, scan the room, landing on personal items that feel like artifacts of a distant, happier life: a half-read book, a forgotten cup of coffee now cold, and a small photo of the two of you, smiling, caught in a moment of blissful ignorance to the trials ahead.

Her phone, gripped tightly in her hand, feels like a lifeline and a weight, its silent screen a constant source of tension and hope. She checks it again, desperate for any update, any word that might pierce the silence of waiting with news of your condition.

The soft knock at the door jolts her from her thoughts, her head snapping towards the sound, eyes wide with a blend of fear and hope. A nurse enters, her expression kind but professional, offering a small, understanding smile.

"No updates yet, Ms. Maximoff," the nurse says gently, her voice a soothing presence in the sterile chill of the room. "The CT scan is still in progress, but we'll let you know as soon as we have any news."

"Thank you," Wanda responds, her voice a whisper, thick with unshed tears. Her tight smile doesn't reach her eyes, eyes that are haunted by the specter of a life without you. She resumes her pacing, each step a silent scream in the agonizing symphony of waiting, her mind a tempest of what-ifs and silent pleas to any force that might be listening.

The room feels like a prison, its medical equipment and sanitized air suffocating her with the impersonal touch of clinical efficiency. Her gaze strays to the window, the sunlight mocking her with its normalcy, its light a cruel contrast to the darkness looming in her heart.

Wanda freezes, her breath catching as her mind wanders, daring to imagine a different reason for her anxiety, a future where the hospital is just a place you visited for a joyful confirmation of new life, not this cold cradle of uncertainty. She envisions a scene filled with laughter and tears of joy over a positive pregnancy test, a shared dream of a new beginning together.

Shaking her head to dispel the fantasy, Wanda's focus sharpens on the present, the hospital room that has become her world. Each echo of her footsteps is a stark reminder of the harsh reality, the tangible tension of the moment grounding her in this sterile environment that holds your life in its indifferent hands.

Her love for you, a fierce, burning flame, casts light and shadow across her heart, illuminating the depth of her need, her desire, her inability to contemplate a future where you don't laugh, breathe, exist beside her. She stands motionless, her gaze fixed on the silent bed, each second stretching out like an eternity, thick with the weight of her unspoken fears and unshed tears.

Her phone vibrates suddenly in her hand, a jolt to her senses, snapping her back to the present. Her heart leaps, a mix of dread and hope surging as she checks the screen, but it's only a message from Steve, a distant reality that fails to pierce the bubble of her immediate concern.

A gentle knock at the door the return of the nurse, who steps inside with a cautious tread. "Ms. Maximoff?" Her voice is soft, laced with a professional empathy born of witnessing too many such vigils.

Wanda turns, her eyes desperate for news, her entire being poised on the edge of hope and despair. "Is there any update? Please," her voice is a plea, each word laden with the gravity of her need for a lifeline, any sign of positive change.