Celeste’s POVThe hospital’s walls had begun to smell like sleep deprivation and burnt coffee.For three nights, I’d sat outside Bonnie’s room, curled up on an uncomfortable chair with nothing but the hum of the corridor and the occasional squeak of nurses’ shoes to keep me company.The first night, she’d called out for me in her fevered haze, clutching my hand like she’d never let go. But once the fever broke and her eyes cleared, she turned away.So, I sat in the hallway, hearing the cartoons playing from her TV, the sound of her spoon clinking against the bowl, and each tiny laugh she shared with someone that wasn’t me.By the third day, my heart felt numb.Ryan came by twice, once with coffee, once with soup I didn’t eat. We barely spoke.The memory of that night, Damien’s sudden hug, my tears, and Ryan walking in on it, hung between us.I hadn’t planned on leaning into Damien’s arms. God, of all people.But grief doesn’t ask for permission. It finds whatever anchor it can and clin
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