The hospital was alive in the worst way—rushed footsteps, urgent voices, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air. I had barely grabbed my surgery coat before I was ushered toward the operating theater, my exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
"Critical case, severe trauma," a nurse briefed me as I scrubbed in. "Collapsed lung, internal bleeding. Oxygen saturation is dropping. We need to move fast."
There was no time to process anything but the steps I had memorized, the knowledge I had drilled into my brain over countless sleepless nights. The patient on the table was unconscious, their chest rising and falling erratically with the help of an oxygen tube. Machines beeped frantically, their sounds colliding with the rushed instructions from the attending surgeon.
"Scalpel."
"Suction."
"Clamp that artery now—"
It was chaos, but inside my mind, everything was painfully clear. Step by step, we worked, the minutes bleeding into each other. At one point, the patient's vitals plummeted, and a suffocating tension took over the room.
"We're losing him!"
"No, we're not," I whispered under my breath, forcing my hands to stay steady. I refused to let another person slip away tonight.
A crucial incision. A calculated stitch. A heartbeat steadied.
By the time we closed him up, he was stable. Alive.
The weight of the night settled on my shoulders the moment I stepped out of the OR. My feet dragged as I changed out of my surgical gear, my muscles screaming in protest. My three-day leave—the one I had been looking forward to, the one that had been taken from me once—was finally granted again.
This time, I was taking it.
The morning light stung my eyes as I left the hospital. I barely remembered walking to the garage, barely registered the familiar interior of my car as I pulled out. The streets blurred past me in hazy streaks of light and motion. I just needed to reach home. To collapse. To exist somewhere that wasn't an operating table.
The drive felt longer than it should have, every red light testing what little patience I had left. But when I finally pulled into the parking lot of my apartment block, I was met with something I wasn't prepared for.
Someone.
Liam.
He was standing outside, looking just as shocked as I felt. My breath hitched, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. His hair was slightly disheveled like he had just woken up. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came.
I hated that I liked seeing him. That it felt like something inside me had been waiting for this moment, even when I swore I didn't want it.
My throat tightened. My chest ached, and I knew it had nothing to do with exhaustion. I was too tired to cry, too tired to feel anything, but my eyes still stung.
I didn't say a word. I couldn't.
Instead, I walked past him, my fingers trembling as I punched in the door code. I felt his stare, the weight of his silence pressing against my back. It was easy to see that he didn't know what to say, that he was struggling to find the right words.
But then, in a soft voice, he finally spoke.
"I'm sorry."
A single tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.
I stepped inside my apartment and shut the door before he could say anything else.
The moment the door clicked shut, the breath I had been holding finally escaped me. I clutched my chest, my heartbeat so loud it was deafening. I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to feel it.
I hated this. Hated that I still cared. Hated that I wanted to cry.
But I was crying anyway.
Silent, exhausted tears fell down my face, my body shaking from emotions I wasn't ready to face.
Not yet.
Not like this.