Last night, I visited Drew at the hospital. The sterile smell of antiseptic and the soft beeping of machines filled the air as I walked down the dimly lit corridor. The overhead lights flickered intermittently, casting long shadows on the beige walls. Drew's room was at the end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. I knocked gently before pushing it open, the hinges creaking softly. Drew looked up from his bed, his face lighting up with a tired but genuine smile. The room was bathed in a soft, artificial glow, the medical equipment humming quietly in the background.
"Kyle, what are you doing here so late?" he asked, his voice a mix of surprise and concern. His eyes, though tired, sparkled with curiosity.
"I needed to talk to you," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The words felt
