Chapter 92: New Year in a Hospital
The vending machine in the corner of the visitors’ lounge groaned as it dispensed two paper cups of cheap coffee. The sound was louder than it should have been in the quiet of the hospital, like the machine was complaining about being woken up this late at night. Alex stood there, watching the cups drop, the lukewarm liquid sloshing as they settled. He took them both, careful not to spill, and walked back over to where Isabella was sitting.
She looked up as he approached, her eyes tired but grateful, and she took the cup without saying anything. Their fingers brushed for a split second, warm against the cold air of the hospital lounge. She held the cup in both hands, letting the heat seep into her skin, grounding herself.
Alex sat down beside her on a stiff plastic chair that creaked under his weight. The chair was uncomfortable, the kind that dug into your back if you leaned too far, but he didn’t care. He settled in, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, coffee cup balanced between his palms.
The lounge was small, tucked away on the fourth floor near the orthopedic wing. There was a faint smell of disinfectant mixed with the metallic scent of hospital air, and the overhead lights flickered every few seconds like they were trying to remind everyone they were still alive. A muted television in the corner played some holiday concert with grainy visuals, the volume turned down so low you could only catch snippets of a singer’s voice when the room was completely silent.
The hospital was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something, anything, to happen. A nurse pushed a cart past them, the wheels squeaking as they rolled over a bump in the floor. Somewhere far away, the beep of a monitor rose and fell like a slow heartbeat, in rhythm with the soft hum of the vents overhead.
They sipped their coffee in silence for a few moments. It wasn’t good coffee, it tasted like burned rubber and cardboard, the kind that made you wince on the first sip but it was warm, and right now, that was enough. It was something to hold, something to focus on when the world felt too heavy.
"You know," Isabella said finally, her voice soft, her eyes watching the steam curl from her cup, "when we were kids, my sister used to crawl into bed with me every Saturday morning to watch cartoons. Didn’t matter what was on, Scooby-Doo, Pokemon, Tom and Jerry. She just liked being close."
Alex turned his head toward her, watching her quietly, giving her space to say what she needed to say. He didn’t interrupt, just took another sip of the bad coffee.
"She wore mismatched socks for like... four years straight," Isabella continued, a small laugh escaping her lips, the kind of laugh that comes with remembering something so pure it almost hurts. "Not even ironically. She said matching them was a capitalist construct. She was seven."
Alex chuckled, the sound low but warm, echoing slightly in the empty lounge. "Sounds like a rebel."
"She was," Isabella said, smiling at the memory. "She used to beg me to sneak her into press boxes when I started working in football. Thought it was the most glamorous thing in the world. Microphones, cameras, grumpy middle-aged men arguing about VAR..."