At the hospital and all I can think about is death.
Corridors and corridors of white, people line all of them — different faces but expressions all the same. I wonder if they, I mean we, are united in thought. United in prayer, united in hope and faith and everything we don't usually think about. My aunt is chanting, my mum is praying, my dad's knuckles are white from squeezing the beads he wore around his neck. In this waiting room alone, I feel more hope than I have in any classroom, in any examination hall, in any room of my house. There is a guy in a blue striped shirt standing across me at the A&E. I don't know him, yet in that instant, I feel like I do. His phone screen reflected into his glasses, and he was staring at nothing but the home screen. It's okay, I'm trying to distract myself by typing here too. I want to share a smile but I don't anyway. Maybe there is death in this place, but there is also recovery. Please God, please.