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As you go through the white, plain halls, you can't help but shiver with uncomfortableness. Hospitals have to be your least favorite place. This is the building where lives come to an end.
The horrid smell of rubbing alcohol is stinging your nostrils with every breath, the screaming silence doing nothing to help. The only raw sounds are quiet murmurs, doors opening, and blasting air conditioning making the large building much colder than you'd like.
Also, what Kuroo said about you going off the grid for multiple days at a time was right... but that's only because you'd be at the hospital.
It's been a week since the whole assumed depression fiasco, and he continued to text you every hour. He would also be calling and spending most days at your house for what you assume is to observe you a bit more.
But now you're not home and you won't be for the next couple of days. Luckily your parents know not to tell him, but it still worries you nonetheless.
The only reason you don't text him as often while you're here is because you can't afford any mistakes. And if he hears the distinct sound of hospital machines, clearly he'll know that something's wrong.
You and your mom enter the hospital room and you're pushed to the bed. As soon as you get within five feet, you groggily stand up and walk over, flopping onto your back with a pout.
"I could have walked." You mutter to the nurse.
She sadly smiles and grabs your arm, folding it out and tying an elastic band around your upper arm. "I know you could have, Y/N."
Yup, you're on a first-name basis with all the nurses in this unit, and some even outside of the cancer unit. It's mainly because you're so young.
An eighteen-year-old with Glioblastoma, now that's rare.
The common pinch is poked into your arm and you don't even flinch, you just pull out your phone and start scrolling through social media, finding a safe place.
