Rated R

➸t h r e e

Shailene POV:

I bite my lip, waiting in the room filled with people visiting loved ones, or people waiting to be filed into correct rooms, or care. Theo promised to see me when I got here, buts it's been fifteen minutes and I'm nothing but fucking nervous. We sent a few short texts back and forth, clarifying everything, but clearly I've missed something . . .
Hawaii was only two hours away, and currently it's about ten o'clock, and soon enough the hospital will have no one but employees.

The hospital is busy, yet it has a different mood, and is more quite than the hospital in Simi Valley I've been to many times. The air in the hospital warms me, but I still shiver when thoughts of Ruth fill my mind.
Theo must be with her right? Maybe?

No, the back of my mind reminds me, visiting hours are long over.
But are they? Perhaps things work different here than they do at home? I silently pray that it is so . . .
But what if it's not? Then where is Theo? Is he here and I don't even see him?

Too many possibilities.

Panic raises through me, and my eyes scan through the crowd. To be honest, there is so many bodies Theo could be any of them. I feel overwhelmed, and I shake my head. This is a lot to take in. My bestfriend, has been attacked by a shark. That is a fact. She could be dying. That's unconfirmed. Theo is with her. Sadly—unconfirmed.
I try to keep myself steady with pure facts, but it's rather hard, when the the possibilities are endless, and the facts are minimal.

The thinking and mind racing I've been doing exhausts me, so I sit in the cool metal chairs, next to a girl that looks to be about eleven or twelve.
"Hi," I say tiredly to her. She seems scared and anxious, which she should be, considering she has a cast on her left leg. She looks equally as exhausted as I am.
"Shailene Woodley?" The girl squeaks. I nod, and shoot a smile her way.
"In the flesh," I reply, and do my signature gesture. "What's your name?"
The little girl blushes and my heart warms. Fans like these are sometimes my favourite type. They're calm, and collected and not begging you for a photo or an autograph . . .
"Annika," she replies, "my mom is filling out papers about my stupid fucking leg."

My eyes widen at the profanity that spilled from her lips. Too many times have I heard language like that come from the mouths of our youth. Yes, I do swear, but that happens to have only stared two years, three tops, ago.

I direct my large eyes to the front desk, where a girl with auburn hair, and a tight black pencil skirt stands. She has what seems to be a blouse, tucked in, and you can see by her stance she means purely business. Her frame seems to be much like her daughters, and that too, puts a smile on my face. I look nothing like my mother, but for some reason I've always envied when people are able to look like their mother. It's one of the many odd things about me.

"Well Annika," I finally find my words, "Do you know what the visiting hours are?" She opens her mouth, but then clamps it closed. Okay? She looks nervous, and I turn away, looking behind me.
The girl with the blouse and pencil skirt looks at me, glaring at my figure. I feel stared down, and decide to stand up. She is still a good four inches taller.

I suppress a gulp, fighting the urge to bite my lip. I've always been short, and I always will be short. I've lost many roles due to the fact that my character was meant to be tall, and curvy. And now . . . Oh joy. I get to be looked down upon my a business lady, with an attitude.
"Hey," I say, disguising my uncomfortableness. "I met your daughter here—"
"My daughter should not be socializing with lower class," the women hisses. I purse my pink lips, irritated.
I can't get over the ignorance of this women.

Although I'm fucking pissed, I can't help but think she's pointing out my outfit. I wear jean shorts, with a grey spaghetti strap tank top. My hair let's loosely over my shoulders, and my hat remains on my head. The hat was my way of trying to stop people from realizing it was me from afar. Too many paparazzi.