With a sigh I move on to the potted herbs in the kitchen window. “He already thinks I'm too emotional, too invested. I need to show him I can be objective… detached when necessary."
The memory shifts, replaying like a film I can't stop watching. Sebastian sitting across from me in that dark closet, his knees almost touching mine. His voice, rough with an emotion I couldn't name as he shared his own loss. The way his thumb felt against my skin when he brushed away that smudge. Me leaning in.
And then...
Water splashes onto the counter as I freeze with the can tilted at a dangerous angle. The memory suddenly sharpens into crystal clarity. He leaned in. Sebastian leaned toward me in thatmoment before the nurse opened the door. If she hadn't walked in...
"No," I say firmly, righting the watering can and grabbing a dish towel to mop up the spill. "No, no, no. That's not what happened. He wasn't going to… we weren't about to…"
But the memory is insistent, refusing to be rewritten. The way his eyes had dropped to my lips for the briefest moment. The almost imperceptible shift of his body toward mine. The charged silence between us, heavy with… something.
"It was nothing," I tell the basil plant, which seems skeptical. "Just two colleagues having a moment of mutual understanding during a difficult day. Professional empathy. That's all."
The plants, thankfully, don't call me on my bullshit. I set the watering can in the sink with so much force that water splashes onto my scrub top. Great. Now I'm a mess inside and out.
"Even if he was leaning in—which he wasn't—it would be a terrible idea," I continue, talking more to myself than the herbs now. "He's my boss. My mentor. The man who literally decides whether I have a job next year."
And he's gorgeous, whispers a treacherous part of my brain.And brilliant. And when he actually talks about medicine instead of protocol, his eyes light up in a way that makes your stomach flip.
"Shut up," I mutter to my own thoughts, turning away from the plants and toward the refrigerator. I need food, or wine, or preferably both. Anything to quiet the part of my brain that keeps replaying what happened in that closet.
I yank open the fridge door, greeted by the sad reality of my grocery situation—half a carton of almond milk, some questionable Chinese takeout, and a bottle of white wine that's been there for at least a month. Adulting at its finest.
But my mind isn't on food anymore. It's stuck in that supply closet, with Sebastian's dark eyes looking into mine, with theghost of what might have been hanging between us. And no amount of talking to plants or raiding my pathetic fridge can make me forget it.
Still, I have to try.
Abandoning the fridge, I move to the freezer. The door sticks when I yank it open, releasing a puff of frosty air into my face. Behind a stack of Lean Cuisines and a bag of frozen peas I don't remember buying sits the emergency stash—Ben & Jerry's Half Baked. I grab it, not bothering with a bowl as I snag a spoon from the drawer and shuffle back to the living room. Some days require direct-from-container ice cream therapy, and today definitely qualifies.
I sink into my couch—a secondhand monstrosity in faded blue that Dad helped me pick out for my first apartment. It's ugly as sin but feels like a hug when you sit in it, which is all that matters on days like this. The coffee table in front of me is cluttered with medical journals, a half-empty mug of yesterday's coffee, and the worn leather photo album I've been avoiding for weeks.
My fingers hover over it for a moment before I pull it onto my lap, the familiar weight settling against my thighs as I pop the ice cream lid. The first spoonful melts on my tongue—sweet, cold comfort—as I flip open the cover.
Dad smiles up at me from the first page, his arm around three-year-old me at some forgotten picnic. His red hair—the same shade as mine before gray started creeping in at his temples—catches the sunlight. My chest tightens at his wide grin, the laugh lines around eyes that mirror my own.
I turn the page, and suddenly I'm seven, sitting on a too-big bicycle while Dad holds the back of the seat. My face is a mix of terror and determination.
I remember that day perfectly—the hot August sun, the gravel driveway that threatened road rash with every wobble, and myabsolute certainty that I would crash and die. And Dad, steady as always, jogging alongside me.
"You're doing great, Mimi," he'd called. "I've got you."
"But what if I fall?" I'd asked, panic rising as I felt the bike tilt.
"Then you get back up and try again. That's what Phillips do."
He let go a moment later. I didn't realize until I'd made it all the way to the mailbox, turning with triumphant glee only to find him standing thirty feet back, hands on his hips, pride radiating from his smile.
I dig my spoon deeper into the ice cream, the memory so vivid I can almost feel the summer heat on my skin. "That's what Phillips do," I murmur.
The next page shows me at my high school graduation, sandwiched between Dad and my science teacher, holding my acceptance letter to pre-med. Dad's arm is around my shoulders, his face split in a grin so wide it must have hurt. I trace the outline of his jaw with my fingertip, remembering how he'd cried in the car afterward—the only time I'd ever seen him cry before his illness.
"You're going to be something extraordinary, Mimi," he'd said, his voice rough with emotion. "You're going to help so many people in ways no one else could."
My throat constricts as I flip to the next page, and there he is in his garage, teaching me how engines work. His hands are grease-stained, his expression serious as he explains the intricate dance of pistons and valves. It was his way of teaching me medicine before I knew that's what I wanted—showing me how to diagnose a problem by listening, by paying attention to the subtle signs others might miss.
"See how it sounds different when the timing's off?" he'd ask, revving the engine. "Medicine's the same way. The body tells you what's wrong if you know how to listen."
The memory collides with today's loss—Marcus Ellis gasping for breath as his systems failed one by one. I'd listened, just like Dad taught me. I'd heard the wrong notes in the symphony of Marcus's body, but I still couldn't save him. Just like I couldn't save Dad.
