Who do I belong to?
Carina
Idon’t sit down.
I know if I do, I won’t get back up.
The locker room’s half-lit, reeking faintly of antiseptic. My feet throb inside my shoes, and my bra strap has carved a permanent canyon across my shoulder blades. And my back—Jesus, my back is screaming.
Twelve hours down, one low-stakes wrist fracture reassigned “just in case,” and a few new murmurs I didn’t bother pretending not to hear. Jenny, apparently, has thoughts on my pregnancy and discreet affairs.
Heidi had the grace to give me a heads-up before I ran face-first into the latest swirl of speculation that she thinks I’veprobably had an affair with a married man, andthat’swhy I’m not talking about who the father is.
I almost laughed, but didn’t because today, for the first time, felt like a limitation. Like being pregnant was more than just something I was managing—it was something other people were defining me by.
A reason to reroute me, go whisper, and to withhold.
But I didn’t fight it or correct the reassignment. Didn’t say a thing when the resident two years behind me got the case that Moreno would’ve tossed my way in a second.
I just stood there, feeling too tired to protest. Too hollow to argue with something that would only prove their point that I was too emotional and fragile.
I haven’t missed a single damn call or consult, yet suddenly, they’re adjusting around me and softening the corners. Deciding, without asking, what I can and can’t take.
But I didn’t forget how to drill a damn plate simply because my body decided to build a damn human.
So now I’m here, peeling off gloves with shaking fingers, swaying on sore feet, stomach twisting like it’s punishing me for not eating since sunrise.
My muscles ache in a way that feels deeper than usual, a tug I’ve been ignoring for the past hour. There’s a stretch across my pelvis when I lean forward, the kind of tightness that makes me pause before I stand. Probably nothing, or maybe something. I don’t know anymore.
I shove my badge into my coat pocket and knot my hair back up with a tie from my wrist, even though I’ll take it down in five minutes.
The hallway is nearly empty as I step out, just the glow of artificial light and the trace of a case I didn’t get to scrub in on, already fading behind the doors.
And still, all I can think is that if someone had handed me a scalpel, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
But today, they did.
***
The sky’s already dusky by the time I unlock my front door. I step inside, and the silence hits like static. I toe off my shoes in the entryway and sink to the floor to peel off my socks.
And stay there.
I can’t get up. I’m too tired.
And maybe I should cry, maybe that would help. But instead, I stare at the scuff mark on the baseboard, then lean my head back against the wall and let my eyes fall closed.
A key turns in the lock, followed by a tentative knock—a courtesy, not a question.
I gave him the spare key two weeks ago. Just slid it into his palm without a word one night when I was too tired to argue.
So I don’t flinch when I hear the familiar squeak, the dull thud as it bumps the edge of the console table. I just sit there on the floor of my own hallway, one shoe off, the other half-undone, watching the light from the streetlamps pour through the gaps in the blinds.
His footsteps are slow at first, then sharper.
“Carina.”
I try to speak, try to tell him I’m fine, that I just need a second. But my throat’s tight and my chest aches and something hot pricks at the corners of my eyes.
