Leah’s voice pulled me back. "Mireya, we just wanted to check in with you." She folded her hands on her desk. "You've been picking up extra shifts almost every week for months. We're worried about you."
I nodded and kept my face neutral even though my shoulders felt like they were carrying someone else's weight on top of mine. “I’m fine. I can handle it.”
Her smile was kind but tinged with worry. "I don't doubt your capability. But there's a difference between managing patients and managing yourself. You've been working overtime constantly—double shifts, emergency call-ins."
I swallowed hard. She was right. My body was screaming at me in ways I couldn't ignore anymore. My hands trembled even as I pressed them flat against my thighs. My stomach had stopped growling hours ago, settling into a hollow ache.
“I’ll be okay,” I said, forcing the words out, hoping they sounded convincing. “I just need a little more time. Things will settle down soon.”
She shook her head. “That’s what everyone says before they crash.”
Then, more firmly, “We’re placing you on a temporary schedule restriction. Effective immediately, you’re limited to standard hours. No additional shifts without approval.”
My stomach dropped. “I can’t do that.”
“I understand you’re hardworking, and we appreciate it,” she said, calm and unmoving. “But it’s not optional. You’re exhausted, Mireya. That makes you a risk–to yourself and to your patients.”
Silence stretched.
“I’ll note this in your file. If it’s ignored, it becomes a formal issue.”
I nodded slowly. I wanted to argue and insist I was fine, but my headache throbbed harder with every second of silence. I had no energy left to fight.
“Now, get some rest,” she said.
After she dismissed me, I walked down the quiet hospital corridor, every step echoing in my skull. The lights were too bright and too harsh, stabbing through the ache behind my eyes.
I slipped into the nearest supply closet and closed the door, immediately hit by the sharp smell of bleach and sterile packaging that made my eyes water. I pressed my back against the cold metal shelving and closed my eyes, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
So why did it feel like I was drowning?
Sixteen hours. That was how long I’d been on my feet. Three surgeries, including the emergency case at three in the morning when Dr. Cross had specifically requested me. The last real mealI ate was my mother’s soup from yesterday. The protein bar in my locker remained untouched.
My hands trembled as I picked up a clipboard, pretending to do inventory. The numbers blurred together. Boxes of surgical gloves. Sterile drapes. Suture kits. My vision kept going fuzzy at the edges like someone had smeared the world with a finger. My ears filled with rushing blood.
One minute. Just one minute to pull myself together.
Then I'd be fine. Dr. Cross had another surgery scheduled, and he needed his first assist. I couldn't fall apart now. Not when people were counting on me.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to slow my breathing, but my lungs refused to cooperate. Short, shallow gasps that weren't enough to clear the fog from my brain. My legs felt liquid, ready to give out.
I gripped the metal shelf harder, focusing on the cold bite of steel against my palms, praying it would anchor me while the world tilted sideways.
Movement outside the door made me look through the small window.
Dr. Cross strode past, white coat pristine and unwrinkled despite the emergency surgery we'd finished barely three hours ago. Patient chart in hand, dark head bent, expression unreadable. Like always.
He looked untouchable. Like exhaustion and hunger and fear had never once found him behind whatever wall he'd built around himself.
The contrast hit me somewhere tender.
He moved through this hospital like he was the only person who had ever truly belonged in it. Controlled. Precise. Unshakeable. While I was hiding in a supply closet, barely remembering the last time I'd slept more than three hours or feltanything except low-grade panic about bills and evictions and keeping everything from falling apart.
And yet.
He had requested me. Again. It was always me he requested, and I had never once let myself think too hard about why. It was professional. It had to be professional. He was the most sought-after cardiac surgeon in the state and I was good at my job and that was the entire explanation.
