He hasn't moved on the app.
But I am.
I have to know what happened.
39
It's 1:02 when I stand in front of the door.
This wing of the hospital seems eerily quiet, only the hum of the vending machine and my breathing that's too loud.
But I am here, so I knock and don't wait. The wanting suddenly outweighs the courtesy, and my hand twists the handle before the echo has even faded.
The room is dark, the only light the cold pulse of a computer screen that paints his face in the most melancholic blue.
He doesn't move, doesn't even acknowledge me. Just sits there, the light of the city a bleeding backdrop behind him, shoulders hunched.
God, he looks ruined. Worse, he's so utterly still.
"Are you busy?" My voice barely makes it out, and his head snaps toward me like I yanked him from water.
For a long moment, he just takes me in, expressionless as I hover by the door.
"No. Never busy for you," he says then.
I step inside slowly, letting the door click shut behind me. The little bag on my shoulder slides off my arm next to some drawers.
He doesn't even glance at it, drinking me in, unblinking. Like if he blinks, I might not be there. Like it happened to him before.
"It's me," I whisper, smiling faintly. "I'm here."
His hands flex on the arms of the chair, like he's restraining himself to reach for me with sheer willpower.
My own ache is unbearable, too. Seeing him like this, I want to touch him, slide into his lap, and tell him he isn't alone.
But I came here for a reason, so instead, I take a tentative step forward and my voice comes out thin, "Why are you here? They told me your shift ended four hours ago."
He blinks at his watch, frowns, then looks back at me, and his eyes are not only tired but torn.
"Time is fluid when you're missing someone."
That leaves me frozen on him, trying to find the first word.
"You can't look at me like that," he says.
I frown. "How?"
"Like that." His hand drags along his creased face. "Like you're hurting for me. Not here. Not now. I've had the worst week. A patient just died. You're gone from my life. I'm—"
"Your patient died?"
"Yeah." His head drops, shoulders folding inward as he drags a breath through his open mouth. "I watched his vitals crash right in front of me."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"He was only thirty. Had his whole life ahead of him." His voice drops lower, almost flat. "It's not even death that gets me anymore—I see it every day. Sometimes it feels... respectful, almost. Polite."
He looks up at me then, eyes tired in a way that makes my throat tighten.
