“You still there? Tell me I didn’t stop you from sleeping. I can hang up if you were about to.”
“I wasn’t,” I whisper. “Couldn’t sleep anyway.”
“Stay with me a minute then?” He asks, almost shy, open.
Something in me stumbles. I pull the blanket tighter, like that could protect me from what his voice does to my insides.
“Alright,” I murmur. “I’m here.”
Another sound, pages closing, maybe a notebook. “You know what? Never mind the song. Just talk to me.”
I close my eyes but my pulse won’t slow down.
“What do you want me to say, Rafe?”
He laughs under his breath, caught off guard. “Anything, everything? Worst movie you’ve ever seen?”
“That’s easy. AnythingDavid Lynchever made,” I say, before I can think better of it. “Don’t come for me.”
There’s a dramatic inhale, mock horror, “All of it?You’re joking.”
“All of it, pretentiousshit.” I repeat, smiling now. “ButThe Roomgets a free pass. Once a year, minimum. It’s tradition.”
He groans through a laugh. “Alright, that’s fair. Everyone needs a bad movie that keeps them humble.”
And just like that, we’re talking. Stupid questions back and forth, what song is our guilty pleasure, best concert we've been to, what we’dcook for someone we wanted to impress. I tell him about the years of med school, the rotations, the way exhaustion becomes a personality trait.
“That’s wild, fifteen years of school?” he says, “I’m lucky if I can remember the setlist. My mum wanted a doctor too, she didn’t quite get her wish.”
“Mum?” I echo, catching the word.
He laughs softly. “Yeah, leftovers of a British dad. Nosexy accent, just some words that stuck.”
I smile at that, tracing circles on the bed sheet. “So you rebelled against both of them, then? Rejected their doctor dreams and British restraint?”
He chuckles. “Exactly.”
We start talking about movies again, how people pretend to love the ones that are impossible to sit through. “It’s like a made-up hierarchy,” I say. “Something to make others feel stupid for not ‘getting it.’”
“Yes!” he says, so relieved it makes me laugh. “Finally, someone said it.”
Then he brings upMulholland Driveand I almost scream. “Don’t even mention the blue box,” I warn him. “When I was in med school, this guy defended that movie like it was a masterpiece. I wanted to stab him in the eye with my pen or strangle him with my stethoscope!”
Rafe loses it, I can hear him gasping, trying to breathe, laughing so hard I start laughing too, tears in my eyes. It’s ridiculous, contagious,perfect. When we finally calm down, it’s still but not awkward. The kind of stillness that feels safe. He tells me about the next stop on the tour. He’s got downtime but says it never feels like downtime on the road, loud one minute, empty the next. I tell him I get it, that my version of burnout looks different but feels the same. Time slips away,three hours pass before I even glance at the clock. My alarm will go off soon, and I still haven’t closed my eyes.
“I won’t sleep tonight,” I admit, half laughing.
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, tripping over his words, endearing in that dangerous way.
“I’m an adult,” I tell him. “I chose this.”
We stall again, both pretending not to notice the weight in the silence. I finally force myself to say goodbye. When I hang up, the room feels too still. It hits me in the gut, not guilt,exactly.We didn't do anything wrong,technically. No lines crossed... so why do Ifeelso heavy?
It’s nothing to do with Obelus or The Riven Altar anymore. This is just… someone who talks to me about nonsense, who doesn’t want to hang up either. Someone who doesn’t treat me like a dream from boyhood, but as a woman he actually wants to know, now. The silly unimportant things that become important. I've never known this feeling before and I'm not sure what to do with it. To have someone so genuinely enthusiastic to read the map of my life,of me.
I move like a zombie, trying my best to exist on zero sleep. I shower, shove my hair into a clip, grab coffee that tastes like burnt tar, and try to pretend my life hasn’t just tilted on its axis. That a single phone call didn’t change the air I breathe. But it did.I feel it with every step.I’m moving through the clinic like I’m underwater. Every chart takes twice as long. I text Dominik between patients, an apology, and a warning:
I didn’t manage to sleep at all last night, probably going to crash before we even have a phone call tonight. I'm sorry.
