26. “I know the feeling.”
“I know the feeling.”
Kat
It’s just another December Saturday shift. Loud. Fluorescents humming. One trauma is already prepped, two drunken injuries are waiting for scans, and I’m halfway through a tea that’s long gone cold.
Then, a call crackles through the radio.
“Male, late twenties, blunt abdominal trauma from a sports injury. Suspected internal bleed, possible ruptured organ. En route, vitals unstable. ETA three minutes.”
I set my tea down and get ready.
They wheel the patient in faster than usual, blue lights still flashing outside. One of the paramedics jumps down from the ambulance and jogs alongside me, rattling off vitals. “Pulse was 110 en route, now 135. BP dropping. Abdomen’s rigid, distended. We administered fluids, but he’s crashing.”
I step forward, reaching for a pair of gloves. And then I see his face.
Archie.
The air is sucked from the room.
Blood is spattered on his shirt, spilling from his mouth. His skin is far too pale.
I freeze, my eyes locked on him.
The registrar clocks it. “Doctor?”
My voice catches in my throat, but I manage to mutter, “I—I can’t take this one.”
Someone else steps in instantly, already gloved and calm. “We’ve got him.”
I stumble back. One pace. Then another. My hands are still suspended in the air, as if I forgot how to lower them.
The paramedic, who’s young and twitchy, lingers by the side of the trolley. I reach for his arm.
“What happened?” My voice doesn’t even sound like mine.
“He took a knee straight to the abdomen,” he says, his words coming out in a tumble. “Went down hard. He was conscious at first, then collapsed a few minutes later. Vomiting. Low temp. BP tanked in the ambulance. They think it might be a ruptured spleen or a mesenteric tear.”
My stomach drops.
Ruptured spleen. Or worse. That’s litres of blood he could be losing.
I know all too well how fast someone can go from upright to… gone.
I can’t breathe.
My knees buckle, and I slide down the nearest wall, the cold of the tile biting through my scrubs. My back hits hard. My arms are braced on my knees, head in my hands, fingers locked tight enough to lose circulation.
How could this happen?
As I huddle there, our last conversation replays in my head. He told me everything I’d dreamed he would say, and I pushed him away, no matter how much I knew it would cost me. But what if he never wakes up? What if this love is really lost forever?
I want to scream, but no sound comes out. Tears are rolling down my cheeks as a familiar scent pulls me into a tight hug.
“So sorry,” the voice says.
“Is he in surgery?” another one adds.
I lift my head—just barely. Two silhouettes take shape. Blonde curls. Jet-black hair.
“Millie’s parking the car,” Roxy says, coming into focus. She’s kneeling in front of me.
“Can you stand?” Fallon asks, leaning over and offering her arm.
I take it, and they help hoist me up. I’m vaguely aware of the weird looks I’m getting from my colleagues as the girls shepherd me to the waiting room.
I want to thank Roxy and Fallon, but I have no words. All I see, all I can think about, is Archie lying on that stretcher with a deathly pallor, and the fact that I may never hear him laugh or tell me a cocky joke again. Or feel his arms around me.
I try to inhale deeply, but no air filters through. All I can do is close my eyes and pray to whatever gods might be listening. To science. To fate. To the Universe.
Please.
Let him come back to me.
The clock on the wall clicks past 3 a.m., the ticking of the second hand piercing the too-quiet waiting room. No one has moved in hours.
Archie’s friends are all here, slumped into the mismatched chairs that line the walls, looking like ghosts of themselves.
Finn’s knee has been bouncing non-stop since he arrived.
Cameron sits hunched over, his elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands.
Wade’s eyes are mostly shut, his arms crossed.
Callum hasn’t spoken once. He just stares blankly at the floor while Millie rubs slow circles on his back, her cheek resting against his shoulder.
Fallon is quiet, her knitting forgotten in her lap.
As for Roxy, she’s the only one who’s managed to keep moving.
She’s spoken to the nurses twice already and explained to my boss why I’m unable to work right now and should be given the night off.
She even spoke to Mrs. Wilcott on the phone, promising to give her updates as she flies back from New York, where she was visiting Noah and Grace.
I sit among them, numb. The ache in my chest hasn’t dulled, just throbbed into something sharp and hollow.
The door opens, and everyone sits up straighter—like a jolt of electricity hit the room.
Dr. Naresh steps out, scrub cap pushed back and sweat still beading on his forehead. “Hi,” he says, looking around the room. “You’re here for Archie Wilcott? Wait… Katherine?” he adds, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
We all nod. I rise to my feet automatically, and a few others follow suit.
“I’m Dr. Naresh,” he says, glancing at everyone. “The surgery went well. Archie is stable and in recovery.”
A collective breath is released. Millie bursts into quiet tears, clutching Callum’s arm tighter. Cameron drops his head back with a sigh, and Finn scrubs both hands over his face.
“He had a Grade IV splenic rupture,” Dr. Naresh continues. “There was significant internal bleeding, but we were able to control it fairly quickly. We performed a splenectomy—that’s a complete removal of the spleen. It’s a fairly common procedure in trauma cases like this.”
I nod, slipping into full doctor mode even as my heart tries to catch up. A flicker of doubt dampens my relief. Maybe if it were me, I would have tried to repair the spleen. But with how unstable he was, removing it quickly was the safest call.
I push the thought aside.
“Was the mesentery intact?” I ask quietly.
“There was some contusion, but no major vascular compromise. No tears. His vitals have been steady for the last hour. We’ve placed him in post-op under close monitoring—fluids, antibiotics, pain control. He’s intubated for now, but he should be weaned off as soon as he’s fully awake.”
I exhale slowly, grounding myself in the details. The clinical facts are a balm, steadying my trembling palms.
“Was there any diaphragmatic involvement?” I ask.
“None that we could see. Lungs are clear. Imaging pre-op confirmed the injury was isolated to the left upper quadrant.”
“Good,” I whisper, half to myself.
“Can we see him?” Finn rasps, standing now.
Dr. Naresh offers a small shake of his head. “He’s still unconscious. We’ve just moved him to recovery, and he’ll be closely monitored for the next few hours. You’re welcome to come back later in the morning. He should be awake by then.”
Fallon nods, rubbing her eyes. “Thank you. For everything.”
The surgeon offers another gentle smile. “He’s strong. He’s going to be okay.”
With that, he slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
For the first time in hours, my knees feel like they might give out. I sit down slowly, pressing a hand to my chest as if that will hold me together. My head tips back against the wall, and I’m finally able to breathe.
Everyone left to change out of their match gear and get some sleep. I said I would follow, but I just couldn’t leave the hospital. So instead, I crash in the on-call room after asking the nurses to page me if there is any movement in Archie’s room.
And finally, I receive the good news. He’s waking up. He’s alert and responsive, and Dr. Naresh lets me see him.
I force myself to stay composed as I cross the hallway, but my legs feel oddly weightless—like they’re not quite touching the floor. The fluorescent lights above create a low background hum, and everything feels strangely suspended in time.
When I step into the recovery room, the world narrows.
Archie’s there, propped up against crisp hospital pillows. A nasal cannula curls beneath his nose, and there’s still a sheen of post-op pallor on his face. But his eyes are open. Warm. Clear.
And when he sees me, he smiles. “Kat.”
My chest constricts.
“Are you…” His voice is hoarse, gravelled. He clears his throat. “Are you the one who made me all shiny and new again?”
I manage a smile, crossing the room slowly. “No. I couldn’t do it.”
His brows knit. “Why not? You’re such a rockstar doctor.”
“I couldn’t…” My voice catches. My throat burns. “Gosh, Archie. I thought I was going to lose you.”
I press my palm to his and finally let the tears flow freely. Silent and hot, they trail down my cheeks unchecked.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I was scared. I was so, so scared. I didn’t want to accept that we could be together, didn’t want to listen to you. But after last night, not knowing if you’d make it… I realised something.”
He squeezes my hand, his thumb brushing gently over my knuckles.
“I can’t be without you,” I breathe. “I don’t want to be without you.”
His gaze softens. “You don’t?”
I shake my head, a watery laugh breaking through the tears. “I’ve never loved anyone so much in my entire life.”
He releases a long breath, eyes shining with more than just exhaustion. “I know the feeling.”
I inch closer, until the railing of the bed presses into my hips.
He lifts one hand—IV and all—and cups the side of my face.
Then, he tilts his head, just slightly, and I bend toward him.
Our lips meet. It’s gentle, careful of wires and soreness, but there’s so much meaning in it, like an unspoken confession.
I feel it in my chest, my fingertips, my spine.
When I pull back, a smile pulls at my lips. His forehead rests lightly against mine.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers.
“Good,” I murmur. “Because I don’t think I’d ever be able to handle that again.”
He caresses my hair again. “I’m sorry I put you through this. From now on, it’s happiness only, I promise.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, my chest feeling lighter than it has in weeks.
“Haven’t you heard? I have the Universe on my side.”
I giggle as he pulls me toward him. Maybe I should be more open-minded about this fate stuff. Archie just might be onto something.