“As usual,” he says, already back to his papers. Then, casually, “Try not to fall into your typicalobsession spiralwith your new play thing while wearing them, I don’t want that tainting their vibe forever. It’srollingoff you.”
“I’mnotspiraling.” I might be spiraling.
“Mhm.” He pauses his assessment of the bits of thought scattered like runes before him and glances up. “Well?I’m waiting.”
“Thank you.” I give him a mock bow, and he repays me with a nod of his head before returning his focus to his mountain of lyrical confetti.
Back in my room, I catch my reflection in the mirror, dark lenses cutting the light just enough. The relief helps me breathe. So does thethought of her. Her eyes won’t stop ticking over in my mind. Then I do something reckless.I snap a photo for her.
Sunglasses on, the rest of my face bare. The kind of image fans would dissect to death, would hope to get. I tell myself it’s for context, to check it’s the right sort of sunglasses but I know better. I’m offering something to her, risking something. The seconds after stretch thin. I imagine her phone lighting up, her recognizing me and wondering if this was a mistake. As time passes, I start to imagine her not replying.
When she does, it’s measured and firm. Emergency line only, general advice in-office. There it is, the line drawn. I won't push again, at least not today. I thank her, say the glasses work and let the conversation end where it should. When I set my phone down, my chest feels tight. She didn’t reject me, she just held me at a distance. Which somehow lands harder. I lie back on the hotel bed; ceiling blurred behind the dark lenses. Somewhere down the hall, the boys are arguing over who stole whose charger.
I think about her hands, steady against me. Her voice, unflinching. The way she looked at me like I was just another problem to solve. It shouldn’t matter; it wasjust a doctor’s appointment.I know I’m being fucking ridiculous, but I can’t stop it. She didn’t give meanything at all,a feeling I’m not used to and somehow that only makes me want her attention more.
Chapter 13
Two Worlds
Sleep refuses me. I close my eyes, press my face into the couch cushion, will my body to drop back under but it doesn’t come. The adrenaline won’t let me. The exam, the text, the selfie. It’s all still in my veins, sparking, impossible to silence. So, I reach for the worst possible cure: my phone. The flood is already there. Fan accounts churning, edits stitched together within hours, the concert isn't even over yet but screenshots are plastered across timelines. The sunglasses,already everywhere.
“He looks like a vampire king, never take them off.”
“Wraparounds? What is this, NASCAR tour 2025?”
“He can keep them on in bed for all I care.”
“No more Obelus eyes… I’m crying.”
I laugh and cringe at the same time but I can’t deny it’s intoxicating and unbearable all at once. Because this time,I know.The glasses everyone’s losing their minds over? He showed me first. He asked me if they worked. He wore them because I suggested them. Every meme, every thirst post, every fan swearing they’d die to lick those ridiculous lenses, all of it traces back to one message I sent mentioning sunglasses.
That’s the part that feels dangerous.The knowing, the being on this side of the curtain, closer than I was ever supposed to be. I let the videos roll, shaky and ecstatic, the crowd screaming into distorted microphones. There he is,my patient, Obelus.
No one else will see it. The small flinches when the lights burst too brightly. The faint hesitation before he dives into a riff, the way his head tilts just slightly away from a spotlight, like a man trying not to look at the sun. I can feel my thoughts getting carried away and I scold myself, a mirror of Conrad in my mind’s eye.
Dr. Katarzyna Sawadzka, MD, Ophthalmology, top of your class, valedictorian,I recite in my head, full name and accolades like I’m reading them off my diplomas.Collect yourself. This is not romance. This is not intimacy. This is a standard eye exam, a bottle of Tropicamide, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. That’s it.
I take a breath. I think of Dominik, of little Zosia’s hand in mine. Of all the years I clawed my way here, the license on my wall, the career I built. Fantasies don’t pay malpractice insurance, they don’t keep my job secure or the partners happy.My jaw sets, but my body doesn’t believe me. I can still feel the weight of his stare, still hear the rough edge of his voice in my exam room. I can still see the way he looked at me before he walked out.
My younger self is screaming. Here he is, talking tomeof all people and I’mrejecting him? Ignoring him?But if this goes wrong for him, he’s still a millionaire with the world at his feet. If it goes wrong for me, it’s everything. My license, my reputation. No one will take me seriously if I get caught sending messages with my patient like some lovesick teenager, violating every ethical line we're meant to hold. It's hard enough to be respected in my field as a woman. If this got out? I haven't crossed a line yet,not technically, but I'd dread to think how the referrals would stop and I could forget making partner. I shouldn't have given him my number but it was too much pressure with those eyes on me. I sigh and bite the inside of my cheek. This is stupid.No, no more messages.No more swooning. I won't risk it, not even for themighty Obelus.
Nothing but pupils. Nothing but protocol.Yet, when I close my eyes again, I’m lit up like I’m under the stage lights too. Then another buzz. My heart leaps, traitor that it is, expectinghim.But it’s Dominik.
A photo, lit soft by a lamp. Zosia sprawled across his chest in pink pajamas, her little hand still gripping the corner of a book. He’s half-tilted on her bed, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, one arm curled protectively around her.
would call
unable to move
The words make something inside me unclench. Just like that, I’m not in some tour bus fantasy or drowning in the Obelus’s eyes. I’m here, in this world. The one where a man reads to his daughter until she falls asleep. I smile into the phone.
Stay there, don’t wake her. You both look too cute for words.
I feel the ground under my feet again.
Sunday morning, my phone buzzes just as I’m reheating leftovers, and Aga’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe, already bracing myself, because Aga never calls mid-afternoon unless something’s wrong.
“Kasia,” she breathes, no hello, just panic in two syllables. “Our sitter canceled. Piotr and I… we actually have a reservation. Just one night out, finally.” In the background I hear the baby fussing, Kacper’s squeal, a pot clattering. She sounds one meltdown away from tears.
