Chapter 35
Regan
“Her vitals are stable, and she’s had her meds,” the nurse says.
“Thanks. I’ll go in and do the final check,” I tell her.
“Thanks, Dr. Thomas. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do.”
Her name is Laney, I think. Or maybe it’s Miri.
Every time I’ve introduced myself and learned a nurse’s name, I don’t see them again the next day.
It’s been like that since I started. At Pulse Point, I grew close to the nurses.
They included me in their prank wars, asked about my day like they actually cared.
It made the work so much lighter because we were laughing between the heaviness, feeling like we were in it together.
Here, I just feel flat. Like I’m ticking boxes off a list.
I head into the room and muster up a smile for the sweet thirteen-year-old who tried to impress a boy by doing a flip on her bike and ended up with a broken wrist instead. She’s touch-and-go because we’re trying to let it heal on its own rather than adding pins or plates.
I ask the standard questions, tapping notes as I go.
“Looks like you’re all set to go,” I say, keeping my tone light and professional. “I’ll let discharge know. Unless you have any questions?”
The girl shakes her head, but her mom speaks up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m good. Thanks for asking.” I smile and nod, walking out with my back straight and my expression neutral. But her question follows me. Are you okay?
I don’t know why it rattles me so much. Maybe because she saw something I’ve been trying to hide, and I don’t have a good answer.
That night, lying in the apartment with the city buzzing outside my window, I can’t stop thinking about it.
I haven’t lost my love for the job—I love what I do—But somewhere along the way, I’ve lost the spark.
The part of me that lit up when I walked into work. The part that laughed with coworkers and felt alive in the chaos. And I don’t know how to get it back.
I’m at the kitchen counter, mindlessly stirring my coffee.
Mom appears next to me in her robe, studying me with a look that she gets when she’s trying to read me.
I can sense her attention to detail; she’s noticing I’m wearing the same pajamas as yesterday, that my hair’s unwashed and pulled into a messy bun, and I’m stirring my coffee, watching it get cold.
“Okay.” She taps her hand on the counter. “That’s enough.”
I look up at her. “Of what?”
“This.” She waves her hand over me. “You’re not yourself. I know you, and this… isn’t you.”
“I’m just quiet,” I insist. “Trying to adjust, that’s all.”
She gives me a long look as she pours herself a coffee, like she’s trying to see past my words. But she doesn’t push.
“Let’s get dressed. We’re going out.”
“Mom, really, I’m—”
“Fine, yes, I heard you the first time. But come and hang out with your mother.”
I want to protest, but sitting with my thoughts isn’t going to help.
“Where are we going?” I call after her as she retreats to her room, probably to get ready.
“You’ll see,” she calls back. “But bundle up. It’s cold out there.”
I tip my coffee out and go to the bathroom. When I see my reflection, I see she’s not wrong. I’m a mess. Maybe getting out of the house isn’t the worst idea.
We spend the day browsing shops, wandering through boutiques and department stores.
She buys me two tops and a pair of shoes I like, but didn’t plan on getting.
I don’t stop her. I don’t want to waste her money, but saying no would just make her worry more.
So I smile, nod, and let her fuss over me.
That night, I prep for work like usual. Go through the motions. The next week follows the same rhythm… Hospital, home, dinners with Mom, the occasional phone calls with Dad, Scarlet, and Liz.
The work is good. It really is. Both the team and kids are sweet, and I’m learning new things every day. But the excitement I thought I’d feel? It hasn’t quite kicked in. There’s a strange, hollowness underneath it all I can’t shake.
The next Saturday morning, I’m curled up on the sofa with a coffee when Mom walks in from the kitchen, a second mug in hand.
“You’re not watching anything?” she says, glancing at the blank TV.
I shake my head to clear it. I was spacing out. “No. But go ahead, if you want.”
She sits beside me, tucking her legs under herself and placing a gentle hand over mine.
“I want to talk to you about something.” She dips her chin to make sure I meet her gaze. “And I want you to be honest with me.”
My stomach tightens. “Okay. What’s up?”
She watches me. “I feel like you haven’t really been yourself since you got back. I thought it was just a long drive or re-adjusting, but now I’m not so sure.”
“No?”
“There’s no life in your eyes. You just look… sad and tired. Like something’s missing.”
“I’m not sad,” I deny automatically, but even I don’t believe it. I know I’ve been off, but I’ve been secretly hoping that one day I’ll wake up and snap out of it.
“But you’re not you, either. You used to have this spark.” She gives me a soft smile, as if remembering a time. “Your quick comebacks, your energy, that happy Regan, and now it’s like the shell of you is walking around instead.”
I try to smile, but my throat closes up. “I’m just adjusting…” It’s the excuse I keep telling her.
“I’m wondering,” she says softly, “if maybe you’re forcing yourself to want something that doesn’t fit anymore.”
That lands like a punch to the stomach. I stare at her as she keeps talking.
“I mean, maybe Pulse Point was right for you. It wasn’t for me, but for you…”
I look down at her hand covering mine.
“Were you like this there?”
I can’t lie; she wants me to be honest. I shake my head slowly. “No.”
She exhales, lips pressed together in thought. “I think you need to really sit with this. Give yourself time. But also, be honest with yourself.”
“But this was my dream,” I whisper. “This ward, this hospital… it’s everything I ever wanted.”
“Dreams change,” she says. “We grow. We evolve. And that’s the beauty of it, Regan. You’re allowed to change your mind. You’re allowed to follow a new dream.”
I nod, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, even though I blink them away.
“I don’t want to rush it,” I murmur. “I want to be sure.”
“And that’s the right call. Take a couple more weeks. Keep showing up. But pay attention to what your gut is telling you. And if it doesn’t feel right”—she squeezes my hand— “follow your heart. You’ll never regret that.”
I nod again, unable to say much more.
She reaches for the remote and puts on the news, her way of giving me space while still being beside me. I stare at the screen, not hearing a word of it.
Her words replay in my mind.
Dreams can change.
And for the first time since arriving in New York, I let myself wonder… What if she’s right?