“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?
Ex-husband sounded too small.
The man who left her sounded too honest.
“I’m Ethan,” I said finally.
The nurse’s expression changed with recognition, but she didn’t say anything.
“I just want to know if she needs anything,” I added. “I know you can’t share information with me. I understand that. But if there’s something I can bring her, or someone I should call—”
The nurse looked past me toward Sophie’s room.
Then she lowered her voice.
“She hasn’t been eating much,” she said. “She likes peppermint tea. Not the cafeteria kind. There’s a shop two blocks over.”
It was such a small piece of information.
And yet it nearly undid me.
Peppermint tea.
Sophie drank it whenever she was anxious. She used to make it at night in our kitchen, wrapping both hands around the mug while steam curled against her face.
