I cry as I say goodbye to my dream. To the friends who will continue on to the next location without me.
I cry for the fact that I didn’t renew my residency with Grace General, which means that at the end of next week I will no longer have a job. And without a job, I can’t afford this piece of shit apartment. I won’t have health insurance to afford my insulin.
I cry because as much as I’m hurting right now, what I want the most out of everything is to run to Colt and beg him to love me through all of this. And I can’t.
And then I cry for the fact that I’m crying over a stupid boy.
And finally, I cry because the realization hits me that with no one to turn to, I am painfully, and utterly alone.
I’m transported back to a time when I was a kid in a cold, sterile hospital in the dead of the night, wishing someone loved me enough to hold me through the pain, swallowing thickly to acknowledge the fact that it simply won’t happen.
I cry so hard that I barely register when the elevator doors open, and I force myself onto numb legs as I stumble down the hall to my apartment.
My vision is so blurred from wet, hot tears that I don’t register the body standing outside my door, and it isn’t until that gravelly voice whispers my name that I gasp, dropping my keys.
They fall to the floor with a rattle, and I go to squat down the same time he does, and we nearly knock heads, much like the moment we first met.
“Go away,” I mumble, refusing to even look up at him.
“Annie,” he whispers as his arm reaches out for me, but I pull out of his grasp and fumble with my keys, failing twice to jam it into the lock. On the third try it works, and I shove open the door and slam it behind me. But instead of hearing the wood rattle against the old frame, I hear the shuffle of steps follow me into my apartment.
“Just leave me alone, please, Colt.” I can barely say his name without the feeling of acid scraping against my throat.
I make it as far as my pitiful couch before I collapse to my knees on the floor beside it. I drop my head into my hands, and let it out.
I’m oblivious to most anything until I feel the warmth of a blanket against my skin. Colt shuffles until he’s kneeling behind me, broad hands roughly rubbing up and down my arms to bring circulation back to my body.
“Annie, please,” he begs. “Tell me what happened.”
I scoff at his audacity, as if he isn’t one of the many reasons I’m a mess right now. I lean forward, pulling my body out of his grasp and I reach for the sides of the blanket, pulling it tighter against me. “Just go.”
“Annie, I—”
I whip around to face him, my wet hair nearly slapping him in the face. “Go!” I bellow. “It makes me sick to even look at you.” My lower lip quivers as I continue, “Please,” I say again, a little softer this time. “I want so badly to crawl into your lap right now and have you tell me that it will be okay. But I don’t trust you anymore, Colt. You’ve broken my trust, and it’s not something that can be given back just because you want it…” A fresh set of tears fills my eyes as I stare into his face for the first time tonight. “You didn't choose me, and maybe someday I'll understand why, but right now I don’t have anything left for you to take, so go.”
“You can trust me,” he whispers into the space between us.
I scoff at that, loudly. “Like hell I can.” I turn to fully face him, pulling my knees up to my chest. His eyes meet mine, lids lined red. He looks nearly as shitty as I feel, but he doesn’t get to be the one that’s hurting.
He hands me a manilla envelope that I hadn’t seen him carrying before, and I keep my arms wrapped tightly around myself, not reaching for it.
“This is for you.” He gestures for me to take it, and I don’t budge.
He sighs heavily, setting it on the floor next to me before running a hand through his disheveled hair. He stands and pauses for a minute as he waits, hoping that I’ll say something, do something, that would indicate I want him to stay.
And as much as I want to, I refuse to play the part of the helpless woman.
He turns to leave, and with a hand on the doorknob, he turns back toward me. He pauses at the doorway and I feel his gaze on me as he whispers, “Ask me why I became a surgeon.”
I sniffle, pausing for a minute to let his words sink in. “What?”
“Ask me why I became a surgeon,” he says again, this time a little louder, his voice wavering as if it’s going to break.
“Colt…” I swallow thickly, exhaustion weighing heavy on me as I use the side of the blanket I’m wrapped in to wipe my tear-streaked face.
I pull the fabric around me tighter, slowly running the creased corner between my thumb and pointer finger. After a few moments of silence, when he still hasn’t left and curiosity gets the best of me, I give in.
“Why did you become a surgeon?”
