I walked away, leaving Chloe standing in the hallway looking like I'd just told her that Santa Claus wasn't real. Which, in a way, I had. I'd shattered her illusion that caring and competence could coexist, that you could protect your patients without protecting yourself from them.
The rest of the shift passed in mechanical precision. Perfect medication calculations, flawless assessments, comprehensive documentation. But every interaction felt hollow, devoid of the warmth that had once made this job feel like more than just work.
During our break, Chloe tried one more time. "Jimmy, I don't know what's going on with you, but you're scaring me a little. This isn't the nurse who taught me to see patients as people, not just diagnoses."
"Maybe that nurse was naive," I said, not looking up frommy charting. "Maybe he hadn't learned yet that caring too much just leads to disappointment."
"Is this about a patient? Did something happen?" A pause, and then, “Did I do something wrong?”
Everything happened,I thought.I failed a woman who trusted me to keep her safe. I destroyed the career of the woman I love. I proved that I'm not worthy of the trust people place in me.
"No. You’re just fine. Nothing happened," I said instead. "I just learned to prioritize appropriately."
But Chloe wasn't buying it. She studied my face with the kind of intensity I'd taught her to bring to patient assessment. "The Jimmy who taught me would never talk like this. He'd say that caring is what makes us good nurses, not just technicians."
The truth of her words rocked me a little, but I pushed it down. That Jimmy had been a fool. This Jimmy understood the world better.
"Get some rest," I said, ending the conversation. "Long night ahead."
Three weeks into my new routine, I was finishing a particularly brutal stretch — six twelve-hour shifts in as many days — when Sophia appeared at my elbow as I gathered my things from the nurses' station to leave for the morning.
"Jimmy," she said, her voice gentle but concerned. "What's going on? You look like you haven't slept in a week."
I kept my eyes on my bag, mechanically checking that I had everything I needed. My apartment had become a place I barely recognized — dishes in the sink, laundry piling up, the refrigerator containing nothing but energy drinks and takeout containers. I'd stopped cooking, stopped cleaning, stopped doing anything that wasn't directly related to work.
"I'm fine. Just tired."
"No, you're not." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You used to light up this whole department. People looked forward to working with you. Now you move around here like a ghost. Talk to me."
For a moment, I was tempted to tell her everything. Sophia had always been easy to talk to, a natural listener who seemed to understand people's pain without judgment. But the words wouldn't come. How could I explain that I'd destroyed the best thing in my life because I was too broken to be what she needed?
"Just going through some stuff," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "I'll be fine."
"Jimmy — "
"I need to get home," I cut her off, not unkindly but with a finality that ended the conversation. "Long shift tomorrow."
I walked away, leaving Sophia standing at the nurses' station with worry written all over her face. I could feel her eyes on me as I headed for the exit, but I didn't look back. There was nothing she could do to help me. Nothing anyone could do.
This was who I was now — a nurse who could start IVs on impossible patients and calculate drip rates in his sleep, but who couldn't save the people who mattered most. A man who'd learned to keep his distance from anything that might require him to be more than technically competent.
It was safer this way. For everyone.
As I drove home through the empty pre-dawn streets, I thought about Kellen — the way he moved through the department like a machine, competent but untouchable. I'd always felt sorry for him, wondered what had happened to make him so closed off.
Now I understood. This was what happened when you cared too much and failed too often. You didn't break.
You just stopped feeling anything at all.
Maybe it was better this way. Maybe this was who I was supposed to be.
But as I pulled into my apartment complex and saw the empty parking space where Izzy's truck used to sit when she stayed over, the hollowness in my chest felt so vast I could barely breathe.
Perfect competence, it turned out, was a cold comfort when you had no one left to be competent for.
chapter
thirty-one
