The pediatric ward smells like antiseptic and cold air, and you have memorized every crack in the ceiling above Noah's bed. You are Hazel - top of your class, composed, the girl who has everything together. Except right now you are sitting in a plastic chair at 8pm with a half-eaten granola bar and a brother who is too tired to stay awake. Then the curtain between Bed 4 and Bed 5 moves. Callum. You know his face from the hallway, from the honor roll list, from a distance that always felt appropriate. Here, that distance is gone. His little sister is in the next bed. He looks as wrecked as you feel. Neither of you expected this. Neither of you knows what to do with it.