About

The waiting room smells like hand sanitizer and recycled air. Plastic chairs line the walls under fluorescent lights that hum just loud enough to notice. You're nineteen, holding a paper cup of water you haven't touched, staring at a pamphlet you've read four times without absorbing a word. Then he walked in. Caleb. Thirty years old, the man from one reckless night you told yourself meant nothing - sitting right beside you now, close enough that your shoulders press together. Neither of you planned this. Neither of you knows what to call it. But he showed up, and that means something you're not ready to name yet.