Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Colton
Not during a dramatic code. Not in a rush of alarms or shouted orders. He went quietly, his body finally doing what it’s been trying to do for weeks now … rest.
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 I can 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.
She watches me, eyes shining, waiting.
But I turn around and walk out. Every instinct in me screams that it’s wrong and that I should go back. I should sit beside her, and I should let myself be human for once instead of competent.
But I keep walking. I know what it will cost me. I also know it’s the only choice I’m capable of making right now.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. I move through it like muscle memory, my body doing what it’s been trained to do while my mind stays carefully locked away from everything else.
This is why I don’t do relationships—because they don’t stay contained.
They bleed into the work. Into the moments where clarity matters. Into the spaces where hesitation can cost lives.
I can’t afford that.
So, I keep my head down and refuse to make eye contact with anyone but my patients for the rest of the day … including Melissa. She knows it’s intentional.
That night, I sit alone in my apartment, lights off, city glowing outside the windows. I replay the moment in the locker room over and over again, each time feeling the weight of what I chose settle heavier in my chest.
I pull my phone out before I can talk myself out of it.
I type.
Erase.
Type again.
What I want to say is complicated. Messy. Full of things I don’t have words for yet.
What I send is all I can manage.
Me: I’m sorry.
Nothing else.
No explanation. No justification.
Just an apology I don’t know how to expand on without unraveling completely.
I set the phone down and stare out at the city, jaw tight, chest aching in a way that feels dangerously close to something I buried a long time ago.
This is the cost. This is why I keep my walls high. Because when you let someone in, you don’t just risk losing them.
You risk losing yourself. And tonight, I can barely breathe as it is.