I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, the darkness pressing down on me. The curtains are still drawn, but a thin line of light slips through the gap, streetlights bleeding faintly into the room like a warning I don’t understand yet.
Unease settles low and heavy in my chest.
It’s familiar now.
My hand moves on its own, pressing against that spot on my sternum, fingers circling slowly as if I can rub the feeling away. Ground myself. Anchor myself to the quiet, to the room, to the fact that I’m safe.
But the stillness doesn’t soothe me.
It feels like the calm before something inevitable.
And no matter how hard I try to breathe through it, the sense that I’ve woken up at exactly the wrong moment refuses to let me go.
After what feels like far too long, and not nearly long enough, I finally force myself out of bed.
The movements come automatically. Mechanical. I shower, letting the water beat against my skin without really registering the heat,without finding the relief I expect. I dress in my scrubs like I always do. Familiar fabric. Familiar routine. Hair pulled back tight, mascara swept on just enough to make me look awake.
Presentable. Functional.
I move through my kitchen on autopilot, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove. When it begins to heat, the rising hum is the only sound in the apartment, too loud in the quiet. I lean back against the counter, arms folded loosely over my middle, and wait.
The kettle whistles.
The sharp sound slices through me, making my shoulders tense as something unsettled twists low in my chest. I press my weight more firmly into the counter, grounding myself, trying to shake the sensation that today is tilted slightly off its axis.
Nothing is wrong.
Nothing has happened.
And yet, the feeling lingers, persistent and intimate, like a hand at my back I can’t quite see, reminding me that some days don’t announce their significance until it’s already too late.
I pour the water, breathe in the steam, and tell myself, again, that I’m just tired.
Work begins slowly, the ward still half-asleep, wrapped in that peculiar hush that only exists in the early hours. I move through my routine on instinct, checks, notes, familiar faces, letting the rhythm of it carry me while my thoughts drift somewhere they shouldn’t.
Eventually, my feet take me to bed nine.
Mr Blackwood lies exactly as I left him, still and silent, machines breathing for him in steady, patient rhythms. I pull a chair closer and lower myself beside his bed, my voice instinctively dropping, like this is a confession instead of a habit.
“He was in my house last night,” I murmur.
The only response is the calm, consistent beeping of the monitor, unwavering and impartial.
“He was hurt,” I add quietly, my fingers curling into the fabric of my scrubs.
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight.
“He kissed me.”
My hand lifts to my mouth without conscious thought, fingertips brushing my lips as the memory blooms, warm, insistent, dangerous. A phantom sensation lingers there, like his mouth never quite left.
“I kissed him back,” I whisper.
My breath stutters as the images rush in unbidden. The way he looked at me, dark, intent, like he was claiming something he’d already decided belonged to him. The way his hands steadied me. The way the world seemed to quiet when he touched me.
I should have been afraid.
Instead, I felt calm. Grounded. Peaceful.
