She was gone before I could stop her, walking quickly past the mother and baby without looking at them. The cafeteria doors swung shut behind her.
I sat alone at the table, my mind racing.
I knew that expression. I'd seen it before, years ago, in fleeting moments when Calla thought I wasn't watching. Grief so profound it seemed to swallow her whole. Loss she'd never spoken about, never explained, never let me help her carry.
What about that mother and baby had broken through her armor?
I thought about going after her immediately. But Calla had always needed space when she was hurting. Pushing too hard would only make her retreat further, lock down tighter, disappear behind walls I couldn't climb.
So I gave her ten minutes. Then I went to find her.
She was on a bench outside the emergency entrance, staring at the parking lot. The night air was cold, November biting through scrubs that weren't designed for outdoor wear. She didn't seem to notice. Her arms were wrapped around herself, her breath visible in small white clouds.
"Hey," I said, sitting beside her.
"I'm fine, Cassian."
"You keep saying that. But you're not."
She was quiet for a long moment. I could see her debating how much to give me. Whether to let me in or push me away.
"Seeing that mother with her baby," she said finally. "It reminded me of things I try not to think about."
"What things?"
She looked at me, and her eyes were red. Calla Karras, who never cried in front of anyone, who held herself together through impossible surgeries and devastating losses, was barely holding on.
"Everything we lost," she whispered. "Everything we could have had."
My throat closed around questions I wanted to ask. What did we lose? What aren't you telling me? But the pain in her eyes stopped me. Whatever this was, she wasn't ready to share it fully. And pushing her now would only make her shut down.
Instead, I moved closer. Our shoulders touched, warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of our scrubs. She didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"For what?"
"For whatever made you look at that mother the way you did. For whatever you've been carrying alone. For not being someone you could talk to about it."
Her breath caught. She leaned into me, just slightly, her shoulder pressing against mine. For a moment, we sat like that. Two people who'd once shared everything, trying to remember how to be close without it destroying them.
My mind wandered somewhere it had no right to go. Had Calla been with anyone since the divorce? Had she dated, fallen in love, built a life with someone I'd never know about?
Had she gotten pregnant?
The thought arrived uninvited and dug in deep. I imagined her carrying someone else's child, experiencing that joy with a man who wasn't me, and jealousy surged through my veins so hot it startled me. I had no right to feel this way. I was living with Maya. I'd moved on, or told myself I had.
But the idea of Calla with someone else, sharing intimacies I'd once believed were mine alone, made me want to put my fist through something.
I pushed the thought away. It wasn't my business. Her life after our marriage was her own. Whatever had caused that look on her face, whoever might have been involved, I had no claim to that information anymore.
But God, I wanted to. I wanted to know everything. Every moment of the past five years I'd missed. Every person who'd been allowed close when I hadn't been.
Then she pulled away.
"We should get some rest," she said, standing. "Tomorrow's going to be long."
"Calla."
