Chapter Six
Sloane
Ilay staring at the ceiling. It was four a.m., another sleepless night. At most, I’d managed two hours of rest, no more.
There was a time when this would have felt normal. During my residency, running on fumes had become routine. The relentless churn of overcrowded wards and the scarcity of doctors left little room for sleep. I had learned to survive on almost nothing, stealing catnaps between shifts while caffeine carried me through the rest.
But that was years ago.
I wasn’t that person anymore. I was older now, just past thirty-six, and the body does not forgive so easily. I could feel it deep in my bones. Fatigue was not something I could outrun forever. It was only a matter of time before it caught up with me.
And when it did, I wasn’t sure how much I’d have left to give.
I didn’t know why, but tonight so many memories surfaced, playing over and over in my mind, echoing behind closed eyes and lingering even when I opened them. They came in pieces: quick flashes of moments, fragments of conversations, of what he said and what I didn’t. Things I should have said. Things I should have heard better.
It started with a question. When did it all begin, this rift between Cameron and me?
I still couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment. Maybe it had been festering too long, quietly growing until it finally exploded.
And then Cameron left.
There’s one memory in the early years of our marriage that struck deeper than the rest.
I had lost a patient who meant a lot to me. Her name was Andy. She had systemic lupus erythematosus with severe complications.
A few weeks before she died, she caught a virus that turned into pneumonia. Her body couldn’t fight off the infection. Her organs began to fail, and in the end, we couldn’t save her.
I kept replaying everything I wished I had done. I wished I had caught the infection sooner. I wished I had seen the flare coming or found a way to slow the damage before it was too late.
The day she died, I couldn’t face anyone. I went up to the hospital rooftop and sat there with my back against the wall. The wind was wild, throwing my hair in every direction, but I needed it. I needed to breathe. I needed the sting of the cold air on my face—some kind of punishment, some way to feel the weight of what I had failed to do.
Cameron found me there. He didn’t say much at first. He just sat beside me and reached for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Then he said,“I know losing a patient is hard. I know how much it can devastate you. But please, tell me, Sloane. How can I be there for you?”
But I didn’t know how to answer. I never really did. The more pressure I felt, the more I shut down. It was just how I coped.
And it caught in my chest as I remembered what I said to him, barely above a sigh.
“I don’t need you right now, Cam. I just need to deal with this alone.”
That night, when we lay in bed, he shifted closer, slowly, like he wasn’t sure how I’d react. Gently, he wrapped an arm around me from behind, hesitant, but he was still trying.
And I didn’t know why, but the words came out before I could stop them.
“I can’t, Cam. I need space right now.”
He exhaled softly; the sound was more sad than hurt.
“I’m here if you need me. I love you.”
I closed my eyes and didn’t say a word.
I knew—I’d come to realize—that there were so many moments like that. Times when I pushed him away, and still, he stayed. Relentlessly, patiently, trying so hard to be there for me.
But I didn’t know how to let him in. I didn’t know how to be vulnerable.
I tried. I really did. Tried to say what I felt.
