Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Melissa
Frank’s room feels wrong without him.
It’s too quiet, for one thing. The machines are gone, the bed stripped down to clean sheets that will never hold his weight again. The whiteboard on the wall still has yesterday’s date written in a hurried hand, like someone assumed there would be a tomorrow to update it.
There won’t be.
I stand in the doorway longer than I need to, my badge heavy against my chest, my fingers curling into the hem of my scrubs. I’ve seen death before, more than most people my age, but this one lands differently.
Frank was never just a patient.
He filled space. He made the room warmer by being in it. He had a way of seeing people and making it impossible to hide behind small talk or professional distance.
I think that’s why this hurts the way it does. Not because I wasn’t prepared, but because I cared.
I step inside and straighten the chair beside the bed out of habit, then smooth imaginary wrinkles from the blanket that isn’t there anymore. The flowers his visitors brought yesterday are gone, too, carted away before the next patient can arrive.
Erased.
I hate how quickly the hospital moves on.
Emotions rise to the surface, and I feel myself needing to take a moment alone.
I step inside the staff locker room, which smells like soap and disinfectant and grief.
I don’t remember sitting down, only the sudden weight of exhaustion pressing me onto the bench. My hands come up to my face automatically, my shoulders folding inward as everything I’ve been holding back finally spills over.
I don’t sob but cry quietly, the way you learn to when you don’t want to be noticed.
Frank’s voice plays in my head, sharp and amused. “You two are exhausting.” His smile. The way he looked at Colton like he knew the truth neither of us were ready to say out loud.
I feel the loss of him in my chest.
And then, like a secondary ache, I feel the loss of Colton’s presence beside me in it.
I look up because I sense him before I see him.
He’s standing in the doorway, his face unreadable, his posture rigid, like he’s holding himself together with sheer will. For a split second, a flash of something raw and unguarded crosses his eyes.
Hope flares in me despite myself.
Then it’s gone.
He doesn’t step forward or say my name. He doesn’t sit beside me or pull me into his arms the way he would have just days ago.
He just … looks at me. And in that look, I understand exactly what he’s choosing.
I watch him turn and walk away. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. Not because he didn’t comfort me, but because I know he wanted to.
The rest of the day passes in fragments.
Condolences murmured softly. Charts updated. Patients tended to. Life continuing like nothing ever happened. I don’t see Colton again.
That night, when I finally peel off my scrubs and sink onto the couch at home, my phone buzzes.
Colton: I’m sorry.
I stare at the screen for a long time.
Part of me wants to respond immediately. To tell him I understand because I know he’s hurting. I don’t need him to be perfect. I need him to be present.
But another part of me—the part I worked hard to build after Bryce—stops me.
I don’t want to chase someone who retreats when things get hard. So, I set the phone face down on the coffee table and let myself feel the sadness and disappointment.
I think of Bryce and the nights I sat beside his bed and stayed, even when there was nothing left to fix.
I learned something from that time.
Love doesn’t mean losing yourself.
And I won’t do that again, not for anyone. Even Colton.
Work doesn’t slow down for grief. It never does.
By the next morning, Frank’s room is already being prepared for a new admission. The whiteboard has been erased. The bed stripped and remade with hospital precision. If I didn’t know better, I might think he’d never been here at all.
But I know better.
I carry him with me as I move through my shift, the weight of his absence settling in my chest like something unfinished. I find myself listening for his voice, for the sharp humor, the way he’d cut through tension with a perfectly timed joke.
The silence he’s left behind is louder than anything he ever said.
I see Colton across the nurses’ station mid-morning, speaking quietly with a resident. He looks exactly the same as always. Crisp, controlled, and perfectly put together.
But I know him now.
I see the tension in his jaw and how his shoulders remain rigid, even when he’s standing still. He avoids looking in the direction of Frank's room entirely, as if the space itself might pull him under if he lets it.
When his eyes flick toward me, I don’t look away.
I don’t soften either.
Our gazes meet briefly, and then he turns back to his work.
That small moment tells me everything I need to know. He’s chosen distance, and I’m choosing not to fight it.
It’s harder than I expected.
Not because I feel weak, but because I don’t. I’m steady and grounded. I do my job well. I comfort patients. I answer questions. I move through my tasks with practiced calm.
But underneath it all, there’s a dull ache from the loss of Frank, but also the loss of the version of Colton who used to linger in doorways and steal glances and wrap his arms around me in empty break rooms like he couldn’t help himself.
I miss that man, but I refuse to beg for him.
During lunch, Trudy slides into the chair across from me, studying my face with the kind of perceptive concern she reserves for moments like this.
“You holding up?” she asks gently.
“I am,” I say honestly.
She nods like she believes me. “You’ve got a good way about you. You don’t disappear when things get heavy.”
I smile faintly. “I learned the hard way.”
She doesn’t ask for details. She never does. Just squeezes my hand once before standing. “If you need anything …”
I watch her walk away, thinking about how many times Frank said the same thing in his own blunt, irreverent way.
Colton passes by a little later, clipboard tucked under his arm. He pauses for half a second, not enough for anyone else to notice, and then continues on.
That pause is worse than indifference. It tells me he feels this too.
That night, when I’m back in my apartment, my phone lights up again.
Another message from Colton.
Colton: I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I stare at it for a long time. He didn’t mean to hurt me. I believe him, but intention doesn’t erase what he did.
I set the phone down without replying and stand at the window, looking out at the city. Somewhere in all that light and movement, people are choosing each other every day. They are choosing to stay, to talk, to be present, even when it’s uncomfortable.
I lie awake for a while, staring at the ceiling, letting the city lights filter in. I don’t reach for my phone. I don’t replay the locker-room moment again. I don’t wonder what I could have done differently.
I already know I did everything right. I showed up and stayed open. I didn’t disappear when things got hard.
That’s all I can ever offer anyone.
The next morning, on my way to work, I pass Frank’s room again. It’s occupied now. A new patient with a new story beginning where his ended. I pause long enough to send a quiet thank-you into the space, then keep moving.
I’ve learned that grief doesn’t mean stopping. It means carrying what mattered forward.
I see Colton only once today. It’s a brief exchange at the nurses’ station. He thanks me for something mundane, his tone polite but distant.
I return the same energy. I’m not cold or rude, just contained. It surprises me how natural it feels. Not because I don’t care, but because I care enough about myself to not unravel over someone else’s silence.
Later, on my break, I sit outside with a coffee, the spring air against my skin. I think about Frank’s words. About the way he saw things so clearly, even as his body failed him.
Colton thinks control keeps him safe. I don’t feel angry at him. I feel sad for him because I know what it’s like to believe shutting down is the only way to survive loss. I know how tempting it is to build a life so carefully controlled that nothing unexpected can ever hurt you again.
I also know what that costs.
Bryce taught me that loving fully doesn’t make the loss meaningless.
It makes the love real.
When I get home that evening, I finally pick up my phone again. Colton’s messages are still there, hovering in the quiet space between us.
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.
I type a response.
What I want to say is complicated. What I choose to say is simple.
Me: I know you’re hurting. But I need someone who stays.
I stare at the screen for a moment, my finger hovering over the Send button.
Then I press it.
My chest tightens with relief. Whatever happens next, I didn’t abandon myself to make it happen. That matters to me.
I set the phone down and move through the rest of my evening with a quiet steadiness I’m proud of. I cook dinner. I take a shower. I let myself exist without bracing for disappointment.
When I climb into bed, the city humming outside my window, one thought settles gently into place.
I am capable of loving deeply. But I am also capable of walking away from what can’t meet me there. Those two truths can exist at the same time.
And for the first time since Frank’s death, I feel grounded in that knowledge.
Whatever choice Colton makes next, I know I’ve already made mine.