24. Miami
Miami
The laptop glares from the couch. I try to lose myself in charts, in the endless loop of retinal scans and notes, all the tidy order that medicine demands. At least blood vessels and optic nerves make sense; they follow patterns, they obey rules. People don’t.
Every few minutes I catch myself glancing at my phone. My reflection on the screen looks wrecked, eyes puffy, mouth set like I’m afraid to speak. I should text Dominik, tell him I’m sorry for the things I said.
Instead I do neither.
I click through images of patients, type three lines, delete them.
Start another chart, delete again, I can’t focus.
My brain keeps circling back to this morning, Zosia’s eyes, her voice breaking on Mama.
Dominik’s jaw clenched like he could hold the world together if he just tried hard enough.
I wanted to believe I could fit, that there was room for me in the picture.
But that’s all it was, a fantasy. A snapshot, framed in the dark.
I close the laptop, rub my eyes, and think about Rafe.
The way everything felt lighter for a while.
He was never asking for more than conversation, never making promises he couldn’t keep.
No talk of weddings, of motherhood. Then I catch myself, heart already lifting at the thought, and I shut it down, hard.
No, complicating things won’t make this hurt any less.
I plug in my phone on the nightstand and walk away from it like it’s dangerous.
Because it is. The washing machine whirs in the background, the candle flickers low.
I tell myself I’ll go to bed early, start fresh tomorrow. Then the phone vibrates. Once. Twice.
I freeze.
The name on the screen makes my stomach drop. Rafe.
I couldn’t sleep.
hope you’re holding up better than I am.
I stand there for a long time, looking at the words, pulse beating in my throat.
I could ignore it, pretend I didn’t see it.
I don’t move, because somehow, even after everything, the silence around me feels less lonely with his message sitting there, waiting.
I stare at the message for what feels like an hour before I finally give in.
The truth is, I couldn’t sleep either. My body’s exhausted, but my mind keeps replaying the morning on an endless loop.
I pick up the phone before I can talk myself out of it.
I couldn’t sleep either.
Today was not a fun day.
I toss the phone onto the bed and immediately regret it, because now I can’t stop staring at it. A minute passes, then another. Then he’s calling. I swipe.
“Hey,” I say, voice rough.
His sigh comes first, long, frayed at the edges. “Hey yourself. You sound… tired.”
I collapse back against the pillows. “Understatement of the year.”
There’s a smile in his voice when he answers. “Alright, then I’ll be gentle with you. No Lynch talk tonight.”
“Good,” I murmur, closing my eyes. “I can’t handle surrealism or symbolism right now. Or men who think women dying is art.”
He laughs softly. “That's... incredibly specific, I’m pretty confident I can avoid that. Topic outside of those parameters you fancy?”
I hesitate. “Nothing in particular. Anything that distracts me from reality."
"You're worrying me. Casual melancholy is usually my domain." Beyond the self deprecating joke his voice holds genuine concern and it softens me, just a little. Just enough.
I take a deep breath in, then finally offer, "Just one of those days. The kind that remind you, you’re not always the hero in someone else’s story.”
He exhales slowly, “You’d be surprised how often I feel that one.”
I adjust under the blanket, the sound of his breathing filling the space between us. It’s strange, how natural it feels, how easily the walls come down when it’s dark and miles separate us.
“Tell me something good,” I say. “Before we both spiral.”
He pauses, thinking. “Alright. I finally nailed that one line, the translation worked. You were right, the word I needed was simpler than I thought.”
A small smile pulls at my lips. “Told you.”
He chuckles. “I should record you saying that, for balance.”
“It might help you remember it, keep you on track.” I murmur, eyelids heavy now. “Save you from all these sleepless nights and phone calls.”
“That's the best part,” he says and I almost miss it.
The silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s the kind that fills the air with everything neither of us dares to say aloud.
My throat tightens. “Not sleeping?”
“Not stopping,” he corrects. “Talking. Thinking.” There’s a small rustling sound, I imagine him running a hand through his hair. “It’s easier, when it’s you on the other end. I forget all the noise for a bit.”
I close my eyes. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I whisper, “I’ll start believing you mean it instead of assuming it's just charm you've picked up from years of practice.”
The line goes silent. Then, almost reluctantly, he admits, “Maybe I do. Mean it.”
Something in my chest lurches, fear, longing. I turn onto my side, face pressed into the pillow. “Rafe…”
He sighs, “Don’t worry, I know what this is. Two insomniacs pretending the miles don’t matter for a few minutes. Helping our minds go quiet.”
I huff out a laugh. “That almost sounds like a diagnosis for something.”
“I’m talking to a doctor, aren’t I?”
We both laugh then, a little breathless, the tension easing but not gone. We trade stories until exhaustion blurs our words. Then, attempting to sound relaxed, like it’s nothing, but I can hear the careful weight behind it, he asks, “Are you free next Friday?”
I blink, pushing my hair out of my face. “Next Friday?”
“Yeah,” he says. “We’re in Miami. Our last show stateside, taking a break before the European leg... you should come. ”
I laugh, startled. “That’s the opposite end of the country, I can’t just hop on a plane to Florida. I have clinic, charts, patients.”
He replies thoughtfully, undeterred. “Listen, I never do this, but, tell fucking Conrad if he helps cover you, I’ll get his wife something signed by the band. Guitar strap, vinyl, whatever she wants. I hate using that card, but… it’ll work. Trust me.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t have to,” his voice deepens, “I want to. I need you here.”
That word lands hard and direct, my heart stumbles. He clears his throat, words pouring out, trying to distract me from what he just said.
“To help me with the song, the translation. Szklane Serce, they'll be recording with us Saturday. The label rented out a studio. I’ll get you friends-and-family passes, flights, hotel, the band will foot the bill for your professional translation services.” I can hear the grin in his voice.
“You’ll get to meet the guys, it’ll be fun.
What do you say? You got a Friday and Saturday you can spare for us?
Consider it a thank you, for taking care of the Eyes of Obelus. ”
He makes a joke of it and we both laugh but it fades fast, both of us unable to hide the nerves that surface. I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm the wild rhythm under it. He’s waiting, breath caught somewhere between hope and mischief.
“Rafe,” I whisper, “It sounds ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he says, smiling through the line. “But you want to be ridiculous, don’t you?”
I don’t answer right away, because I do.
The next morning my phone lights up before the alarm even has a chance.
ask Conrad yet?
I groan, burying my face in the pillow, it’s five-thirty. I’m not even conscious yet, let alone in the clinic.
I’m not even there, give me a second to put my glasses on.
Since when are you awake this early?
jet lag. messes with the internal clock.
and anticipation.
don’t make me beg.
embarrassing for everyone involved.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself, when another notification flashes across the screen. Dominik.
you never answered my calls
are you mad
The smile dies.
I’m not mad, I just need some time.
There’s a long pause. I can almost see him reading it, jaw tight, that small frown that always means he’s trying not to take something personally.
It’s my fault. I built this picture in my head, like we were already a family.
I cried at work, that hasn't happened since med school.
I’ll see you at dinner tonight, okay?
He starts typing, stops. Starts again.
kochana you are so stubborn
we see you tonight
I leave the message thread open for a long time, thumb hovering. By the time I walk into the clinic, I’ve built my armor back up. Scrubs, lab coat, caffeine. I find Conrad at his desk, half-buried in paperwork, muttering to himself.
“Conrad,” I start, steady but casual, “how’s your wife these days? Still a fan of The Riven Altar?”
He looks up suspiciously. “Why?”
I take a breath. “Because I might be able to get her something signed. From the whole band. Maybe a guitar strap, some guitar picks?”
He blinks at me. “I'm listening. What's your angle?”
“I need a half day next Friday, you'd have to cover my patients for the afternoon clinic.”
There’s exactly three seconds of silence before he says, “Done.”
Just like that.
I blink. “Really?”
“Tell my wife it came from you and I'll have you on call for a month straight. I want all the credit for this.”
I walk away laughing and stunned. It gives me a buzz, like I’ve just discovered a secret, a key only I hold. One text from a rock star and suddenly my notoriously strict mentor folds like wet cardboard. When I text Rafe back, my fingers are trembling a little. A mix of exhilaration and power.
He said yes. I can’t believe that actually worked.
I told you. I’m very persuasive when properly motivated.
now I just need your details for booking. friday night flight in, sunday morning back. hotel, passes, I'll get everything sorted with Elise and Olivia.
I can’t believe this is happening. This can’t be real.
believe it.
miami’s waiting.
I stare at the screen, heart thundering, the clinic spinning faintly around me. I’m supposed to feel guilty, conflicted, and maybe I do, but under all of it, there’s something else, impossible to ignore.
Excitement runs through my veins, reckless and alive.