Hospitals smell the same everywhere.
It doesn't matter how new the building is or how much money was poured into it. There's always that underlying scent—clean to the point of discomfort, sharp and sterile, like something is being erased over and over again.
As if scrubbing hard enough could make pain disappear.
I notice it the moment I walk through the doors.
I shouldn't be here in the middle of the day. I should be at my desk, finishing the revised schedules, answering emails before anyone has to follow up. But my phone hasn't stopped buzzing since noon, vibrating against the edge of my workspace like a warning I can't ignore.
Mom.
Mom.
Mom.
By the third call, my hands are already shaking.
I answer before it can ring again.
"Elara," my mother says. Her voice is thin, stretched too tight. "The doctor wants to run a few more tests."
She tries to sound calm. She always does.
I close my eyes.
I already know what that means.
"I'm on my way," I say, standing so quickly my chair scrapes against the floor. "Don't worry. I'll be there soon."
I don't wait for permission.
I don't check my calendar or notify anyone. I don't stop to consider how it looks to leave the executive floor in the middle of the day without explanation.
I just grab my bag and go.
The subway feels slower than usual.
Every stop drags. Every delay feels personal, as if the city itself has decided to test how much I can handle before I break. I stare at the digital board, watching the minutes flicker and change, willing the numbers to move faster.
They don't.
My chest tightens with each passing station. I try to breathe evenly, counting the stops, pressing my fingers into my palm until the sensation grounds me enough to stay upright.
When I finally step out onto the street near the hospital, the air feels heavier.
The building looms ahead, all glass and sharp edges, reflecting the dull gray of the sky. People move in and out of the automatic doors with practiced efficiency—doctors, nurses, visitors clutching flowers that look too bright for the setting.
By the time I reach the entrance, my chest hurts.
Inside, everything is too quiet.
The floors shine. The walls are pale. Voices stay low, even when people are clearly upset, as if the building demands restraint from everyone inside it.
I follow the signs to my mother's room, my steps slowing as I get closer. There's always a moment right before I see her when I have to brace myself.
She's sitting up in bed when I walk in.
Her hair is pulled back loosely, strands slipping free around her face. She looks smaller than she used to, thinner in ways that weren't there before. When she sees me, her expression brightens, and that somehow makes everything worse.
"You didn't have to rush," she says gently. "I was fine."
I pull a chair closer to the bed and sit down, forcing my hands to stay steady. "I wanted to."
She reaches out and touches my wrist, her fingers cool. "You're working too much."
I smile, because that's what she needs from me right now. "It's nothing. Work is busy."
She knows better. She always has.
The doctor comes in about ten minutes later.
He's polite. Professional. The kind of man who has learned how to deliver information without letting it weigh too heavily on his face. He talks in careful phrases, measured tones.
"Progression," he says.
"Management," he adds.
"Next steps."
I nod at the right moments, asking the right questions, keeping my voice calm. I know how to listen. I've learned how to hear what's being said beneath the language designed to soften it.
This isn't improvement.
It's containment.
When he leaves, the room feels smaller.
I grip the edge of the chair, my fingers curling so tightly my knuckles ache. I focus on the pressure, on the physical sensation, because it's easier than letting my thoughts spiral.
"It's fine," I say quickly when my mother looks at me. "We'll manage."
She watches me for a long moment, then reaches for my hand. Her grip is weak, but intentional.
"You shouldn't carry this alone," she says quietly.
I squeeze her hand back, forcing my smile to stay in place. "I'm not."
It's a lie.
I've been carrying it alone for a long time.
When visiting hours end, I help her settle back against the pillows, adjusting the blanket the way she likes. She insists I go home, tells me she'll rest, tells me she doesn't want me worrying.
I promise I'll come back tomorrow.
Outside, the sky has already darkened.
I sit on a bench near the hospital entrance for a moment, elbows on my knees, my head bowed. The glass doors slide open and closed behind me, letting out bursts of cold air and muted conversation.
Just breathe.
In.
Out.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
I don't need to look to know who it is.
Mr. Hale
My stomach drops.
I stare at the screen for three seconds, debating whether to let it go to voicemail. Professional instinct wins.
"Yes, sir?" I answer.
"You left," he says.
Not accusing. Not sharp.
Just factual.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I had a personal matter."
There's a pause on the line. I imagine him standing in his office, phone to his ear, expression unreadable.
"Are you coming back?" he asks.
I glance over my shoulder at the hospital doors. At the people moving in and out. At the weight sitting heavy in my chest.
"I—" My voice catches before I can stop it.
I swallow hard.
"I can be there tomorrow early," I say instead. "I'll make up the time."
Another pause.
"Take the rest of the day," he says. "I'll handle it."
The words land softly, but they knock the breath from my lungs anyway.
"Yes, sir," I whisper.
The call ends.
I sit there for a long moment afterward, my phone still pressed to my ear, even though the line has gone dead.
He didn't ask why.
He didn't push.
He didn't make it complicated.
And somehow, that makes my throat burn more than if he had.
I stand up before anyone can see my face.
I don't cry at work.
I don't cry in front of people like him.
I wait until I'm home.
Inside my apartment, I drop my bag by the door and sit down on the edge of my bed, shoes still on. The silence presses in immediately, familiar and unforgiving.
I stare at the wall.
Then, finally, I let myself break.
It isn't dramatic. There's no sobbing, no collapse. Just quiet tears slipping down my face as I cover my mouth with my hand, breathing through the ache in my chest.
Just for a minute.
Just enough to let the pressure ease.
When it passes, I wipe my face, wash my hands, and stand up.
Tomorrow, I'll wake up early.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to Hale Industries.
I'll keep my head down. I'll do my job. I'll be careful.
No one will know how close I came to falling apart on a hospital bench outside a building that never sleeps.
And I will keep going.
Because I don't have another choice.