Hey, deskmate ; minsung 𖦹

10

Jisung.

I stared blankly at the white walls of the hospital, the sterile scent of bleach and antiseptic lingering in the air. The plastic chair beneath me felt cold, hard, and unforgiving, but I barely noticed it anymore. My body was numb, like I was floating in a daze, disconnected from everything happening around me.

My grandma was upstairs, hooked up to machines, fighting for her life. And I was here, useless, just waiting. Waiting for some doctor to come out and tell me something—anything—that could make this feel less real.

It had started as just another day. I was sitting in class, listening to the droning voice of the teacher while the other students either dozed off or scribbled notes. I remember zoning out, staring at the clock, wishing for the bell to ring. That's when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I wasn't supposed to check my phone during class, but something in my gut made me reach for it. There was a text from my mom, and as soon as I read it, the world seemed to tilt on its axis.

Eomma ❤️
>"Come to the hospital. It's Grandma."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Grandma. She'd been in and out of the hospital a few times over the past couple of years, but it was never anything serious. Nothing life-threatening. But this time... I don't know why, but I knew it was different.

I barely remember how I got out of school that day. I didn't care if anyone saw me leave or if teachers would give me hell for skipping. Nothing mattered except getting to the hospital. My legs felt heavy as I ran, my breath catching in my throat as fear settled deep in my chest. By the time I reached the hospital, my lungs were burning, but the pain was nothing compared to the dread that had taken root inside me.

When I arrived, my mom was already there, her face pale and drawn, her hands shaking. She didn't need to say anything. I saw it in her eyes—this wasn't just a check-up or a routine visit. Grandma was dying.

They let me see her, but only for a few minutes. She was unconscious, her fragile body barely recognizable beneath all the tubes and wires. Her chest rose and fell with the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator, and the beeping of the machines was the only sound in the room. I stood by her bedside, my hands trembling as I reached out, brushing my fingers lightly against hers. They were cold. So cold.

"Please," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Please don't leave me."

I didn't realize I was crying until a tear slipped down my cheek and landed on her hand. I wiped it away quickly, not wanting to break down in front of her, even though she couldn't see me, couldn't hear me. But still, I couldn't help but beg, over and over in my mind: Don't go. Don't leave me. Not yet.

She had always been there, always strong, always stubborn in her own way. She was the one who tucked me in when I was little, the one who made sure I ate when my parents were too busy. She was the one who taught me everything that mattered—about kindness, about resilience, about how to get back up when life knocked you down. She was my entire world growing up.

I didn't know how to exist in a world without her.

I stayed by her side until the nurse gently pulled me away, saying they needed to run more tests. That was hours ago, and since then, I've just been sitting here in this cold, quiet waiting room, watching as the minutes dragged on and on. My mom's gone to make some calls, and I'm alone. Alone with my thoughts, alone with the crushing weight of helplessness.

I feel like I should be doing something, but there's nothing I can do. I can't fix this. I can't save her. All I can do is sit here, waiting for news, waiting for someone to come out and tell me that she's okay. That it's all going to be okay.