I think that’s why this hurts the way it does. Not because I wasn’t prepared, but because I cared.
I step inside and straighten the chair beside the bed out of habit, then smooth imaginary wrinkles from the blanket that isn’t there anymore. The flowers his visitors brought yesterday are gone, too, carted away before the next patient can arrive.
Erased.
I hate how quickly the hospital moves on.
Emotions rise to the surface, and I feel myself needing to take a moment alone.
I step inside the staff locker room, which smells like soap and disinfectant and grief.
I don’t remember sitting down, only the sudden weight of exhaustion pressing me onto the bench. My hands come up to my face automatically, my shoulders folding inward as everything I’ve been holding back finally spills over.
I don’t sob but cry quietly, the way you learn to when you don’t want to be noticed.
Frank’s voice plays in my head, sharp and amused.“You two are exhausting.”His smile. The way he looked at Colton like he knew the truth neither of us were ready to say out loud.
I feel the loss of him in my chest.
And then, like a secondary ache, I feel the loss of Colton’s presence beside me in it.
I look up because I sense him before I see him.
He’s standing in the doorway, his face unreadable, his posture rigid, like he’s holding himself together with sheerwill. For a split second, a flash of something raw and unguarded crosses his eyes.
Hope flares in me despite myself.
Then it’s gone.
He doesn’t step forward or say my name. He doesn’t sit beside me or pull me into his arms the way he would have just days ago.
He just … looks at me. And in that look, I understand exactly what he’s choosing.
I watch him turn and walk away. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. Not because he didn’t comfort me, but because I know he wanted to.
The rest of the day passes in fragments.
Condolences murmured softly. Charts updated. Patients tended to. Life continuing like nothing ever happened. I don’t see Colton again.
That night, when I finally peel off my scrubs and sink onto the couch at home, my phone buzzes.
Colton: I’m sorry.
I stare at the screen for a long time.
Part of me wants to respond immediately. To tell him I understand because I know he’s hurting. I don’t need him to be perfect. I need him to be present.
But another part of me—the part I worked hard to build after Bryce—stops me.
I don’t want to chase someone who retreats when things get hard. So, I set the phone face down on the coffee table and let myself feel the sadness and disappointment.
I think of Bryce and the nights I sat beside his bed and stayed, even when there was nothing left to fix.
I learned something from that time.
Love doesn’t mean losing yourself.
And I won’t do that again, not for anyone. Even Colton.
