The Quiet Between

Chapter Six Sloane

Chapter Six

Sloane

Ilay staring at the ceiling. It was four a.m., another sleepless night. At most, I’d managed two hours of rest, no more.

There was a time when this would have felt normal.

During my residency, running on fumes had become routine.

The relentless churn of overcrowded wards and the scarcity of doctors left little room for sleep.

I had learned to survive on almost nothing, stealing catnaps between shifts while caffeine carried me through the rest.

But that was years ago.

I wasn’t that person anymore. I was older now, just past thirty-six, and the body does not forgive so easily. I could feel it deep in my bones. Fatigue was not something I could outrun forever. It was only a matter of time before it caught up with me.

And when it did, I wasn’t sure how much I’d have left to give.

I didn’t know why, but tonight so many memories surfaced, playing over and over in my mind, echoing behind closed eyes and lingering even when I opened them.

They came in pieces: quick flashes of moments, fragments of conversations, of what he said and what I didn’t.

Things I should have said. Things I should have heard better.

It started with a question. When did it all begin, this rift between Cameron and me?

I still couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment. Maybe it had been festering too long, quietly growing until it finally exploded.

And then Cameron left.

There’s one memory in the early years of our marriage that struck deeper than the rest.

I had lost a patient who meant a lot to me. Her name was Andy. She had systemic lupus erythematosus with severe complications.

A few weeks before she died, she caught a virus that turned into pneumonia. Her body couldn’t fight off the infection. Her organs began to fail, and in the end, we couldn’t save her.

I kept replaying everything I wished I had done. I wished I had caught the infection sooner. I wished I had seen the flare coming or found a way to slow the damage before it was too late.

The day she died, I couldn’t face anyone.

I went up to the hospital rooftop and sat there with my back against the wall.

The wind was wild, throwing my hair in every direction, but I needed it.

I needed to breathe. I needed the sting of the cold air on my face—some kind of punishment, some way to feel the weight of what I had failed to do.

Cameron found me there. He didn’t say much at first. He just sat beside me and reached for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Then he said, “I know losing a patient is hard. I know how much it can devastate you. But please, tell me, Sloane. How can I be there for you?”

But I didn’t know how to answer. I never really did. The more pressure I felt, the more I shut down. It was just how I coped.

And it caught in my chest as I remembered what I said to him, barely above a sigh.

“I don’t need you right now, Cam. I just need to deal with this alone.”

That night, when we lay in bed, he shifted closer, slowly, like he wasn’t sure how I’d react. Gently, he wrapped an arm around me from behind, hesitant, but he was still trying.

And I didn’t know why, but the words came out before I could stop them.

“I can’t, Cam. I need space right now.”

He exhaled softly; the sound was more sad than hurt.

“I’m here if you need me. I love you.”

I closed my eyes and didn’t say a word.

I knew—I’d come to realize—that there were so many moments like that. Times when I pushed him away, and still, he stayed. Relentlessly, patiently, trying so hard to be there for me.

But I didn’t know how to let him in. I didn’t know how to be vulnerable.

I tried. I really did. Tried to say what I felt.

But the words never came out right. Or never came at all.

My mind was flooded with memories of the things he used to say to me.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I answered.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? No matter what, I love you.”

And I didn’t give him a response.

Whenever we visited my parents, which I tried to limit to a dinner every two months, I always left feeling worse than when I arrived. It was never just a meal. It was a string of loaded questions and quiet disapproval, a constant reminder that I wasn’t enough.

They wanted me to be like them, top doctors with accolades and private practices, not someone working long hours in a public hospital, barely making enough to cover her student debt.

It became routine that when we arrived home, I would pour myself a glass of red wine and sit at the window seat, looking outside and trying to quiet my mind. All I wanted was to drown out the voices of my parents in my head. How could I speak about it when he asked?

Eventually, he’d retreat to our bedroom, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Hours later, I’d slip in, trying not to wake him, though I always did. He’d open his tired eyes, reach for me, gently brush his fingers across my cheek, and whisper, “I’m here, baby. Whenever and wherever you need me.”

He said it every time. With patience, with love.

Until one night, he didn’t say it anymore.

Regardless of everything—the silence, the distance, the words left unsaid—when we made love, it was with raw intensity neither of us could fake.

Sometimes it was slow and aching, other times laced with anger, frustration, or the need to feel something, anything, other than the space growing between us.

But it was always passionate. Always consuming.

As if, for those brief moments, our bodies knew how to speak the things our mouths couldn’t.

As if, in the rhythm of moans and sighs and breaths, we could still find each other.

And I knew it was because of him.

Because he never stopped reaching for me, never lost that quiet, stubborn hope that one day I’d open the door and let him all the way in.

Then one night, he asked me, while he was still inside me, his body pressed to mine, our mouths still tasting each other, our skin slick with sweat and breathless from the rush of it all.

He whispered against my neck, his voice rough and broken. His arms tightened around me.

“Tell me you love me, Sloane.”

I kissed his cheek, his jaw, his lips. I whispered his name like it held everything I couldn’t say.

“Please,” he breathed again.

I do love him. I loved him with all my heart. With every fractured part that still remembered how.

But at that moment, the words... they curled inside my chest and refused to come out.

Because even after such intimacy, the silence still lingered between us.

What we hadn’t said still hung in the air.

The fights that broke us both still echoed.

We never truly let go of it.

It was still quietly eating away at our hearts.

Because his plea came from that pain.

My silence was born from that hurt.

Then he pulled away, leaving a sharp cold in the space between us. His voice was raw, rough, and desperate, worn down to its bones.

“Tell me you love me. Twelve years, Sloane. And I can count on one hand how many times you’ve said it. I’ve told you a hundred times over. So say it. Say it to me now.”

And I didn’t say it

The words were right there, pressing against my chest, aching to be let out.

But I stayed quiet.

Why didn’t I say it?

Why couldn’t I give him the one thing he was aching to hear, the thing I knew I carried so deeply it scared me?

Then Cameron stopped trying.

And I withdrew deeper.

Until we couldn’t find each other anymore.

It was lunchtime. I chose to eat in the park across the street despite the sharp winter chill that bit even at midday. The park was beautiful, winter flowers splashed with color, and a fishpond mirrored the pale sky.

I sat alone, the sandwich still unopened, resting idle on my lap.

My eyes were fixed on nothing, lost in the music playing through my AirPods.

Maybe it was foolish to play Love Song by Lana Del Rey on repeat when I should’ve chosen something brighter—something that wouldn’t let the sadness linger.

I didn’t know why I kept listening, perhaps the haunting melody, the weight of the title, or simply the melancholy settling over me.

Or maybe it was the lyrics that truly caught me:

Is it safe, is it safe to just be who we are?

Yeah... it was the lyrics.

Now I’m here with you, and I would like to think that you would stick around.

I sighed and covered my face with my hands, desperation washing over me.

The taste, the touch, the way we love, it all comes down to make the sound of our love song.

It was a beautiful song, though.

So I let the song play on repeat, eyes closed, letting the melody wash over me.

I exhaled slowly. It was quiet. Peaceful.

I could stay like this for a long time.

Then came a rustle behind me, a quiet shift in the air that told me someone was near. I didn’t turn. Just thought it was strange—someone else choosing this cold, empty park too.

I ignored it and kept my eyes closed.

And then I felt him.

I didn’t need to turn, didn’t even need to open my eyes to know who it was. He sat beside me.

I paused the music and finally looked at him.

“I need my peace, Cameron.”

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “I’ve heard that many times.”

And yet, he was still here, even after choosing to leave.

My gaze settled on his face, the memories from last night crashing over me again.

I knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. Not anymore.

He had already made his choice.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

He closed his eyes, his hands folded over his stomach. “I don’t know.”

“Cameron...”

“Yeah, I know. I shouldn’t be here.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I was looking for you,” he said, opening his eyes to meet mine. “In the past, this was where I usually found you.”

“But you never came closer.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I just watched you from afar.”

“So why did you come now?”

His voice went quieter when he answered, “Like I said, I don’t know.”

I didn’t ask again, because deep down, we both knew the answer.

But it was too painful to say it now, and no longer ours to say.

And maybe it was better left unsaid.

I pressed play on my phone, letting the music fill my ears again.

Then, quietly, I reached beneath my coat, slipped a hand into the pocket of my top, and pulled out a small bottle.

I set it gently on his folded hands.

It was a bottle of diluted peppermint oil.

For him.

After the song ended, I rose to my feet and began the walk back to the hospital.

Cameron stayed behind, still seated, saying nothing.

The quiet of the park vanished the moment I stepped into the hospital.

Noise returned all at once: rushed footsteps, distant voices, the steady hum of machines.

Urgency pressed in—decisions waiting to be made in seconds, patients looking at me with eyes full of hope, pleading with me to take their pain away.

The stillness I’d clung to slipped from my grasp as the pace of work wrapped itself around me.

I tried not to think too much.

Of the memories.

And heartbreak.

Of why Cameron was in that park.

And for a while, it seemed to work.

So I gave in, letting the rhythm pull me under, losing myself in the blur of movement and responsibility.

I was like a machine until I found myself standing against a wall, my hand on my chest, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. I hadn’t stopped or sat down for five hours. I almost broke down.

“Here,” I heard a familiar voice beside me. It was Caroline. She handed me a cold bottle of sweet tea from the vending machine, then stood next to me, mirroring my stance. “You need to drink, and sugar will help give you energy.”

I took it, mumbling, “Thank you.”

“Listen,” she began, when I had already taken a big gulp of the drink. “You know that I’m not good with this kind of thing. And I know it’s awkward for you too... but,” she paused, her gaze fixed on nothing before her, “I want you to know that I’m here for you. For anything you need.”

That’s when she finally turned her gaze to me. “Okay?”

I nodded, smiling at her. “Okay.”

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, then walked away.

I took another big gulp of the drink, and then a tall figure appeared before me.

“Sloane.” Gabriel’s deep voice rumbled, his smile wide and mesmerizing.

“Gabriel,” I replied with a small smile.

He glanced at my drink and scrunched his forehead. “They sell that in this hospital?”

“It’s from the vending machine.”

“There’s tons of sugar in that—not very healthy.”

I frowned at him. “I love this. Please don’t take it away from me.”

He chuckled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. Crossing his arms over his chest, the muscles flexed, and my eyes were instantly drawn to them.

“No,” he said softly. “But it’s good to know what you like.”

“Yeah... I love sugar,” I said with a wry grin. “Even if it’s my slow undoing.”

He shook his head with a slow smile. “Nah, sugar won’t break you. I have a feeling you’re strong enough to handle way more than that.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I asked, “How do you like working here?”

He shrugged. “So far, okay.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Only okay?”

He chuckled. “Orthopedics here isn’t as busy as my last hospital. No idea why.”

“How many surgeries did you usually do in a day there?”

“Four to five, sometimes more.”

“And here?”

“Today I only have two scheduled.”

I studied his face. “You miss the rush?”

“Of course,” he said.

I straightened and looked up at him. “I need to sit down. Would you like to join me at the cafeteria? I could use some coffee and snacks.”

Gabriel’s smile grew wider, and I noticed how his eyes closed just a little when he smiled—something that was unexpectedly endearing.

He nodded. “Coffee and snacks sound good.”

We walked side by side toward the cafeteria. Along the way, I spotted Cameron coming from the other direction, dressed in scrubs and a surgical cap, just out of the operating room, it seemed. He stopped when he saw us.

I caught the brief tension between Cameron and Gabriel as their eyes met, but we kept walking. Gabriel gave Cameron a slight nod. “Dr. Davis.”

Cameron stayed silent. He didn’t offer a response.

We passed by him, leaving Cameron standing there, his gaze burning into my back.