~Sienna~

The silence of the third-floor waiting room is the kind that eats at your nerves, a thick, sterile quiet broken only by the soft squeak of a janitor’s cart somewhere in the distance. I sit on the edge of a hard plastic chair, my fingers digging into my palms so hard I can feel my pulse thrumming in my fingertips. Every time the double doors hiss open, my breath hitches, my heart performing a violent, rough dance against my ribs.

Finally, the doors swing wide, and a man in pale blue ...