She nods, then hesitates. “He … thought the world of you.”
That hits harder than I expected.
“He said you were the kind of doctor who listens, even when you pretend you don’t,” she continues. “The kind who feels things too deeply and works twice as hard to hide it.”
My jaw tightens.
Trudy offers me a sad, knowing look, then turns and slips out, closing the door softly behind her.
The click of the latch echoes too loudly. I stare down at the envelope in my hand. I don’t open it.
Instead, I set it on my desk and align it carefully with the edge, as if order will somehow protect me from its contents. Frank’s name isn’t written anywhere on the outside. It’s just mine, but his presence is unmistakable.
I sit here longer than I should. The office feels smaller with it in here, like the air has thickened, pressing against my ribs. I tell myself I should finish the chart I was reviewing or that I should move on to the next task.
That’s what I always do, but my eyes keep drifting back to the envelope.
I stand abruptly and move to the window, pressing my palm flat against the cool glass. Manhattan stretches out below me, indifferent and alive.
Frank is gone. The finality of it still doesn’t feel real.
I think of the last time I saw him conscious and the way he smirked at me, even as his body failed him. Or the way he looked at me like he knew exactly what I was doing when I shortened visits, when I stopped sitting down, when Istarted treating him like distance could protect me from what was coming.
He noticed everything, and that was the problem.
I turn back to the desk.
My fingers hover over the envelope, hesitation tightening my chest. This shouldn’t scare me. It’s words. I deal in hard truths for a living. I tell people things that shatter their worlds before lunch.
So, why does this feel different?
Because Frank didn’t simply know my professional mask. He saw the man underneath it.
I slide my finger under the flap and open the envelope slowly, deliberately, like rushing would somehow cheapen what’s inside.
There’s a single folded sheet of paper.
I sit down again, the chair creaking beneath my weight, and unfold the paper. For a while, I stare at the handwriting.
It’s slightly slanted and even, like he had too much to say and not enough tolerance for neatness.
I inhale once, and then I start to read.
Colton,
If you’re reading this, it means I finally ran out of time.
Don’t make that face. I knew before most people did. Comes with being old, stubborn, and having far too much time to think.
I asked Diane to make sure this got to you because I didn’t want to say it out loud. You have a habit of interrupting when conversations get uncomfortable. I didn’t want to give you the chance.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
That’s fair.
You’re a good doctor. You already know that. Everyone knows that. You’re steady. You don’t panic. You don’t rush decisions just to feel useful. You don’t promise miracles you can’t deliver.
But that’s not why I liked you.
