“Tell me about medical school,” I request, redirecting the conversation toward safer territory.
Her expression lightens immediately, the tension easing from her shoulders as she turns toward memories that carry warmth instead of grief. “It was brutal. Long hours, impossible exams, constant pressure. But Lila made it bearable.”
“How did you meet?”
“College roommates,” she explains. “Random assignment that turned into the best friendship of my life. We survived organic chemistry together, pulled all-nighters before exams, celebrated every victory and mourned every failure. When I applied tomedical school, she followed. When she faltered, I kept her going. When I retreated too far into my own head, she dragged me back.”
“She sounds loyal.”
“She is. Too loyal sometimes. She worries about me constantly, even when there's nothing to worry about.”
“That's not possible,” I reply, echoing my earlier words.
Rowan smiles, genuine warmth reaching her eyes. “You sound like her.”
“Then she has good instincts.”
We talk for another hour, the conversation flowing more easily now that the wine has loosened her defenses and the privacy of the lounge has removed the pressure of public scrutiny. She tells me about residency, about the first surgery she performed independently, about the patients who stayed with her long after they'd healed and moved on.
I listen without interrupting, absorbing every detail she offers. The way her voice softens when she talks about the children she's treated. The pride that surfaces when she describes successful outcomes. The guilt that lingers when she discusses the ones she couldn't save.
She carries every loss personally, as though each death is a promise broken rather than the inevitable outcome of trauma she couldn't prevent.
It's admirable, though exhausting and unsustainable.
“You can't save everyone,” I tell her gently.
“I know,” she replies. “But that doesn't make it easier.”
“It shouldn't be easy. If it were, you wouldn't care enough to keep trying.”
She considers that. “How do you manage it? The responsibility?”
“I compartmentalize. Separate what I can control from what I can't.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It can be,” I admit. “But it's effective.”
She turns to look at me fully, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that feels invasive despite the invitation. “Is that what you want? To be effective instead of connected?”
The question cuts through the carefully constructed distance I've maintained all evening. I could deflect, offer the same evasions I've perfected over years of avoiding intimacy. Or I could tell her the truth.
I choose honesty.
“No,” I answer quietly. “But it's what I've learned to accept.”
“Why?”
“Because connection requires vulnerability, and vulnerability is a liability in my world.”
“What world is that?”
The question hovers between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to unpack. I could tell her the truth, lay out the reality of my existence, and watch her retreat behind the safety of professional boundaries. Or I could offer pieces of the truth, enough to satisfy her curiosity without placing dangers on her that aren’t hers to claim.
I choose the middle ground.
“A world where trust is earned slowly and betrayal is punished swiftly,” I explain carefully. “Where loyalty matters more than affection and weakness is exploited without mercy.”
