The Waiting Room
Hospitals have a way of making everything feel more real.
The sterile smell. The quiet urgency. The way time seems to slow and speed up all at once.
We checked in, explained her symptoms, and waited.
And waited.
Leila sat beside me, her hand in mine. It felt smaller than I remembered. Colder, too.
When they finally called her name, my heart jumped.
This was it.
Either I was overreacting…
Or I wasn’t.
The Tests
The doctor listened carefully as I described everything—the pain, the dizziness, the fatigue.
Leila answered questions softly, downplaying her symptoms in that way teenagers often do, as if minimizing them might make them disappear.
But the doctor didn’t dismiss it.
They ordered tests.
Blood work. Imaging. More questions.
Hours passed.
Each minute stretched thinner than the last.
And then, finally, the doctor came back.



