“Sophie,” he said, firmer this time, “now.”
She nodded.
The nurse moved to help her stand, but before they guided her inside, Sophie looked back at me.
“You should go visit whoever you came here to see,” she said.
The sentence was polite.
Too polite.
It was the voice people used with acquaintances.
“Sophie, I’m not leaving.”
Her eyes darkened.
“You don’t get to come back because you feel bad.”
The words were quiet, but they stopped me cold.
“I know,” I said.
“Do you?”
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to tell her that I understood everything now. That I understood the pain, the fear, the loneliness, the impossible choices.
But I didn’t.
Not yet.
Maybe not at all.
So I told the truth.
“No,” I said. “But I want to.”
She studied me for a long second.
Then the nurse guided her through the door, and she disappeared into the room.
I remained in the hallway, staring at the empty chair where she had been sitting.
For several minutes, I did nothing.
I didn’t visit my best friend.
I didn’t move.
I simply stood there while the life I thought I understood rearranged itself into something I barely recognized.
Eventually, I walked to the nurses’ station.
A young nurse glanced up from her computer. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for Sophie Miller,” I said.
The nurse typed something. “Are you family?”
The word caught in my throat.
Two months ago, the answer would have been simple.
Now it was a legal question, and legally, I was nothing.
“I’m her…” I stopped.
Her what?
