The morning sun cast soft, dappled light across the hospital corridor, but it did little to clear the fog that had settled in my mind. My steps echoed through the hall as I walked, the files tucked under my arm feeling heavier than they should have. Last night's emergency was still fresh in my mind—a whirlwind of cold water, grasping hands, and the fragile gasp of a life saved. But for some reason, it wouldn't let me go.
Pausing outside Room 314, I caught a glimpse of the empty bed. She had been discharged early this morning, just hours after the incident. It shouldn't have bothered me, but it did. A nameless woman, just another face in the endless stream of patients I'd treated over the years. Yet, as the echoes of her last desperate moments played through my mind, I realized I had been replaying it—over and over—since dawn.
"Dr. Collins? You good?"
I turned, barely suppressing a flinch as Dr. Reynolds approached, his usual joviality dampened by his arched brow. "Long night?"
I nodded, mustering what I hoped was a casual smile. "One of those."
Dr. Reynolds chuckled, slapping me on the back. "Seems like every night's a long one for you. One of these days, you'll get yourself a life, you know."
I laughed, though it came out more as a hum, low and strained. He wasn't wrong. The hospital had become my life—a routine as predictable as it was consuming. Shift after shift blurred into one, each one offering a momentary reprieve from the other things I tried not to think about. But lately, I'd been questioning what I was really doing here. Was it passion? Or was it a way to stay too busy to confront the emptiness waiting outside the hospital doors?
Pushing the thought away, I forced my attention back to the stack of patient files. But even as I worked, reviewing charts and making rounds, I couldn't silence the persistent voice at the back of my mind, questioning why this particular patient—the woman from last night—stayed so vividly in my memory.
It was hardly the first time I'd saved a life, yet the way her eyes had drifted shut, her body folding into the water's dark embrace, felt different. I hadn't seen just fear in her eyes—I'd seen a haunting depth of sorrow, the kind of pain people carried alone until it buried them from the inside out. She'd almost vanished before my eyes, her gaze so heavy with despair it was like she was surrendering to the water's pull.
As I moved between patient rooms, offering quick smiles and dutiful questions, her image would surface at the edges of my thoughts, the fleeting memory of her vacant eyes reminding me of a feeling I hadn't let myself examine. And with it came something else—a reminder of why I had been so relentless, so unwilling to let her slip away.
Hours passed, and I found myself heading toward the break room, hoping a quick coffee would clear the haze clouding my mind. But as I entered, the low murmur of conversation brought me back to the present. A handful of colleagues sat around the table, laughing and sharing anecdotes from their rounds, their voices warm and familiar.
"Collins!" Dr. Alvarez called out, grinning. "Join us for once!"
I managed a half-smile, pouring myself a cup of coffee and leaning against the counter. She was always trying to rope me into their conversations, sensing, perhaps, the isolation I tried to ignore. But no amount of caffeine could help me forget the way she had looked, her face ghostly pale and her breath barely a whisper. Or the way her hand had felt so fragile in mine, as if it might disappear.
"Just another day, huh?" Dr. Alvarez quipped, as if reading my mind. "Looks like that coffee's more a lifeline than a pick-me-up."
I chuckled, though it felt hollow. "Something like that."
She tilted her head, her smile fading slightly. "You sure you're good, Chris?"
I nodded, keeping my response short. "Yeah, just a long night."
Though I meant it as a brush-off, Dr. Alvarez's eyes lingered on me, her expression softened with an empathy I didn't want to acknowledge. Her presence had a warmth that was hard to ignore, a reminder of the friendships I'd drifted away from, the life outside these sterile walls I'd kept at arm's length.
"Well, let us know when you're ready to join the land of the living," she said, grinning before returning to her coffee.
I chuckled, though the words settled uncomfortably within me. I hadn't thought of it like that—drifting between patients, my existence suspended within these walls as if it were the only place I belonged. A small pang of envy tugged at me as I watched them, laughing at some shared memory, their easy camaraderie filling the room with a sense of belonging. I realized then that it had been a long time since I'd felt truly connected to anyone. My life had become a string of disjointed moments, an endless cycle of saving others while leaving myself somewhere behind.
My pager buzzed, pulling me from my thoughts. "Dr. Collins, ER consult needed in Room 202."
I muttered a quick goodbye and left, feeling relief as the noise of the break room faded behind me. Focus. This is what I needed. Focus on work—on the patients that needed me right now, on the stack of charts waiting on my desk, on anything but the gnawing feeling of disconnect that had been creeping in around the edges.
As I made my way down the hall, I found myself passing Room 314 again. I slowed, almost against my will, my mind drawn back to last night. She was gone now, her bed empty, and there was no trace of the desperation that had echoed in her final moments. And yet, her presence lingered like a shadow.
The nurse on duty noticed me lingering by the door. She hesitated, then spoke up. "Dr. Collins? You were the one who saved her, weren't you?"
I nodded, my throat tightening. "Yeah. I… didn't get a chance to check on her before she left."
The nurse nodded, her voice softened with understanding. "She woke up briefly, but she didn't say much. Looked pretty shaken up. I hope she gets the help she needs."
The help she needs. The words hung in the air, reminding me of all the patients I had seen pass through these halls, each carrying their own hidden battles. I wanted to believe I'd done all I could, but there was a part of me that wondered what more I could have done. I had pulled her from the brink, but the pain that had driven her there wasn't something I could fix. No amount of medical intervention could erase the kind of scars she carried inside.
I turned, offering a quiet nod of thanks to the nurse, then continued down the hallway. Each step felt heavier, as if the weight of last night had settled deep into my bones, refusing to let go. There was a nagging feeling at the back of my mind—a familiar ache I hadn't let myself acknowledge in a long time. The ache of knowing I could save lives, but there were some things even I couldn't mend.
I stopped outside Room 202, forcing myself to shake off the haze and refocus. I stepped into the room, letting the clinical detachment take over, letting the familiar rhythm of diagnosis and treatment quiet the restless thoughts.
Yet, as I examined my patient, taking vitals and adjusting medications, I couldn't ignore the echo of her fragile voice, the way she had looked at me with those hollow eyes. I wanted to believe that I had saved her, that my intervention had been enough. But I knew better. Sometimes, a rescue was just the beginning.
As I finished my rounds and returned to my office, I glanced at the clock, the hours slipping away as the day continued in its usual rhythm. I knew I would leave here tonight, lock up my office, and return tomorrow to do it all again. But something about last night had changed something in me, something I wasn't ready to face.
I closed my office door, sinking into my chair, the hum of the hospital fading into the background. The memory of her face haunted me, the look of someone who had come so close to the edge that there was nothing left. It was a reflection of something deeper, something I recognized but couldn't name. And for the first time in a long while, I wondered if perhaps I, too, had been skirting an edge of my own.