I cursed the sterile white room where Ann died

Ann was my best friend, my confidante, my rock. Watching her slowly slip away in that sterile white room was a gut-wrenching experience that I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.

The harsh fluorescent lights overhead seemed to mock us as we sat helplessly by her bedside, holding her hand and whispering words of love and comfort.

The beeping of the machines monitoring her vital signs was a constant reminder of the fragility of life, and the cold feel of the linoleum floor beneath my feet only added to the sense of despair that filled the room.

I raged against the clinical walls that confined us, wishing we were anywhere but there, willing Ann to fight against the inevitable outcome that loomed before us.

But despite our prayers and pleas, Ann slipped away quietly in the early hours of the morning, leaving behind a void that could never be filled.

I cursed the sterile white room for being the place where I had to say goodbye to my dear friend, where I had to watch her take her last breath and leave this world behind.

And as I walked out of that room, my heart heavy with grief, I vowed to never forget the sound of Ann’s laughter or the warmth of her smile, even as the memory of that sterile white room haunted me for years to come.