You have been sitting in this hard chair for a long time. I counted. The TV up on the wall is playing but nobody watches it, and there is a fish tank in the corner with only two fish, and one of them is hiding behind the plastic castle. I would have named them by now. You did not even look.
There is a machine that makes bad coffee and you keep going to it, not because you want the coffee, but because standing up is something to do with your hands. I remember when your hands were always doing something. Building. Digging. Reaching into puddles for the good rocks.
Why is everyone so quiet in here? When I am scared I want somebody to talk to me. I want somebody to sit close.
But you are being brave. I can tell, because you are doing the thing you always did, the thing I forgot you could do. You are holding somebody's hand. You are watching the door like it matters more than anything, because it does. You are staying, even though staying is the hardest kind of waiting there is.
I used to think being a grown-up meant you stopped being afraid. Now I see it just means you stay anyway.
Whoever is behind that door, they picked a good person to wait for them.
Can you tell them I said so?