I never let it linger. I refuse to let my eyes track her like they want to do.
When she walks into a room, I excuse myself. When she speaks during rounds, I acknowledge her professionally, then move on.
It’s easier this way.
Necessary.
As I chart my last patient, I can feel the tension in my posture growing. My fingers type aggressively against the keyboard.
“Everything okay?” Trudy asks later, arching a knowing brow.
“Fine,” I answer too quickly.
She hums like she doesn’t believe me but lets it go.
I don’t.
Because when I pass Melissa again near the supply room, she hesitates. Like she’s deciding whether to say something to me.
She doesn’t.
She gives me a courteous nod, then keeps walking.
It bothers me far more than it should.
By lunchtime, I can barely get my sandwich down. I’ve lost my appetite. But I force myself to eat anyway, if for nothing else than to give my body the energy to finish my shift.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see it’s a text from my sister.
Aubrey: Mom and Dad want us over this weekend for dinner. You going to bail on me again?
A twinge of guilt floods my chest as I let out a heavy sigh. I don’t mean to put my sister through my own issues. Being around my parents can be tough for me. I know they care. I know they do their best. It doesn’t erase the past.
I stare at the message longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the screen. Aubrey never means it like an accusation, but it still feels like one.
I typeI’ll try, and then I delete it.
Not sure yetalso feels like a lie, dressed up as honesty, so I delete that too.
The truth is, I don’t know how to exist in that house without feeling like I’m twelve years old again. Without feeling like the adult in the room while everyone else pretends nothing fractured.
I shove the phone back into my pocket without replying.
Avoidance is a kill I perfected early.
She catches up to me outside room 446.
I’m not sure if it’s intentional, but the timing seems odd.
“Dr. Fisher?” she says, softer than usual.
I stop because I have to. Because ignoring her outright would be noticeable. Because some part of me still hasn’t learned how to move without reacting to her voice.
“Yes?” I keep my tone neutral. Professional. Safe.
She’s holding her tablet against her chest, fingers curled around the edge, like she’s bracing herself. Her brows knit slightly, the way they do when she’s working through a problem or when she’s unsure. I notice how much I already know about this woman and her mannerisms in the time that she’s been with us.
I don’t notice any other nurses like this.
