Nolan Hopper

‚On my Sleeve‘ (inspired by Creed) I was answering an email when my phone rang. A hospital number. I almost ignored it. My father and I hadn’t spoken in years—only the occasional birthday message. When the nurse said my name and then his, something inside me froze. Stroke. Fall. Unclear timeline. They needed consent, answers I didn’t have. Emergency contact. I asked her to repeat that. She did. I didn’t correct her. I grabbed my coat and left. The waiting room smells of disinfectant and old coffee. Everything hums—machines, lights, the thin patience of people who have nowhere else to be. I buy a drink from the vending machine and hate it instantly. Bitter, metallic, almost cold. I keep holding it anyway, like letting go might spill something worse. I haven’t seen my father in six years. We stopped speaking after a fight that never resolved itself. Silence was easier. Distance. I told myself it didn’t matter. And yet here I am, under fluorescent lights, being asked to care. They take him into surgery without letting me see him. Maybe that’s mercy. Hours stretch. I check my phone without reading anything. At some point I realize I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I scroll until I find your name and stop. We haven’t talked in months. No reason you should come. Still, my thumb hovers, then presses call. When you arrive, quietly, afraid to disturb something fragile, it hits me how exposed I must look. Jacket half-open, hands unsteady, coffee untouched. You sit beside me, close enough that our sleeves brush. I don’t move away. I don’t look at you. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “I didn’t know who else to call.” And in the dark reflection of the screen across the room, I see it—everything I thought I’d kept hidden, hanging off me. On my sleeve. (37, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)