I’m standing at the nurses’ station when the call comes through. I don’t rush. I already know.
There’s a strange clarity that comes with moments like this. A narrowing. A stripping away of everything except what’s essential.
I walk to the room alone, on my mission to do my job.
Frank looks smaller than he did yesterday. Smaller than he did an hour ago. His wife is there, holding his hand, her face calm in a way that only comes after long preparation. She looks up when I enter, and in her eyes, I see her gratitude layered over her grief.
“He waited,” she says softly. “I think he wanted me here.”
I nod once. “He wasn’t alone.”
She smiles faintly. “No, he wasn’t.”
I do what I’m trained to do. I confirm the time of death. I document it. I make sure to speak in measured tones. My voice doesn’t shake. My hands don’t tremble. This is the part I know how to do.
This is the part that has rules.
When I leave the room, the hallway feels too bright, like the world didn’t get the memo that a life just ended.
I tell myself this is no different from any other patient. I repeat that as I sign paperwork, as I speak to the team, and as I nod when someone murmurs condolences.
But it’s a lie. Frank wasn’t just another patient.
He saw things. He said things. He looked at me like he knew exactly what I was doing … building a life that never required me to feel this. He looked at me like he recognized the distance… and now he’s gone.
I don’t go back to my office. I don’t trust myself there. Instead, I walk aimlessly. Through corridors I’ve memorized so well that I don’t need to look where I’m going.
I find myself opening the door to the staff locker room. That’s where I see her. Melissa is sitting on the bench with her face in her hands. Her shoulders are shaking, quiet and contained, like she’s trying not to let anyone hear.
I stop inside the doorway.
This is the moment. I know immediately that this is a line Ican cross or not cross and that whichever choice I make will matter more than I want it to.
If I go to her …
If I touch her …
If I let myself feel this with her …
I won’t be able to hold it back. Everything I’ve worked to keep buried deep inside will rise to the surface.
Frank’s face flashes behind my eyes.
Another hospital room.
Another ending I couldn’t stop.
I feel my chest tighten. My breath coming shallow now, sharp at the edges. This isn’t grief at the moment. I recognize it faintly as panic. The kind that creeps in when you realize you’re about to lose control of composure you’ve spent years mastering.
Melissa looks up, and our eyes meet. In that instant, I see it all in her face. I see the sadness, yes, but also the openness. The way she would let me lean into her without question. The way she would hold this with me, even if it broke her a little too.
I can’t.
I can’t let that happen.
Because if I do, I won’t be able to put it back where it belongs. And if I can’t put it back, I won’t be able to function. Not here. Not in this job. Not in the only place I know how to be useful.
She doesn’t say my name.
