The Glass Wall

The orange glow of the sunset hit the hospital window at exactly 5:47 PM, same as it had every evening for three weeks. Mara sat in the vinyl chair that had permanently molded to her body, watching her mother sleep through the glass wall of the isolation room.

"She's not in pain anymore," Dr. Chen had said that morning, his voice practiced and hollow. "The vitamin regimen helped, but it's time to discuss comfort measures."

Mara had nodded, signing forms she couldn't bring herself to read. Now she watched the nurse adjust the IV drip, the water flowing through clear tubing like time itself—relentless, invisible, measured in drops.

Her phone buzzed. David. Again.

"I know you're going through something," his last text read. "But I can't keep doing this—waiting for you to be ready to live again."

She'd met David at a jazz bar two years ago. He'd ordered her an Old Fashioned with an orange twist, laughing when she'd admitted she didn't drink. They'd spent the night talking about his startup, her graduate research, the way the city looked from the Brooklyn Bridge at midnight.

Now she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten. Couldn't remember the last time she'd felt anything beyond the crushing weight of waiting.

The nurse exited the isolation room, offering a sympathetic smile. "You can go in now. She's awake."

Mara washed her hands at the sink, the water cool against her skin, watching the soap bubbles rise and burst. Her mother's eyes opened when she approached—familiar, distant, already somewhere else.

"You came," her mother whispered, her voice like dry leaves.

"Every day," Mara said, taking the paper-thin hand. "Every day."

"Your father..." Her mother's eyes searched the room. "He loved oranges. Always had one with his breakfast."

Mara swallowed. "I know, Mom."

"Don't wait, Mara." The grip on her hand tightened with surprising strength. "I waited. For better timing. For retirement. For someday." Her mother's eyes filled with tears. "Someday doesn't come."

The machines beeped steadily. Beyond the glass, the sun had set, leaving only the fluorescent hum of the hospital.

Mara stepped into the corridor and pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over David's name, then moved to her messages app. She typed:

"I'm sorry. I'm ready now. Can I come over?"

The reply came instantly. "Always."

She walked toward the elevator, leaving the glass wall behind. The water cooler bubbled in the corner. The vitamin supplements sat untouched on her mother's bedside table. And somewhere across the city, David was waiting, and for the first time in three weeks, Mara wasn't.