7. Dziwka
Dziwka
Dominik’s good morning text lands as always.
Short, steady, just enough warmth to make me smile into my coffee and then, nothing.
Our usual exchange turns completely one-sided.
By noon, the silence itches under my skin.
At first, I tell myself it’s fine, that he’s busy, that construction isn’t exactly the kind of job you can answer texts from mid-ladder, even though he's managed to without a problem until today. He’s the boss, my mind reminds me, trying to soothe the rising panic, he has to keep everything running.
I shouldn’t worry. Still, by the time I duck into the break room for lunch, the knot in my stomach has pulled tight.
Dominik's absence distracts me just enough that I make two stupid mistakes. First, I nearly sign off a chart without entering the treatment plan. Then I realize I’ve grabbed the wrong injection tray entirely, wrong patient, wrong dose, wrong everything.
My hands shake as I lock myself in the bathroom, forcing air into my lungs.
Get your shit together, Kasia.
I owe it to myself, to all the years I carved my life down to bone, to every patient who looks me in the eye expecting help. They deserve my focus. Not this spiral over a man who texted good morning and then vanished. They rely on me not to lose my concentration over one date and some phone calls.
So, I straighten my coat, pin my hair back, and finish the day.
The techs notice me checking my phone between patients, but I make sure I don’t miss anything else.
By the time the last chart closes, relief rushes over me, not because Dominik has finally answered, but because I made it through without hurting anyone.
This is why I don’t do this. Why I don’t let anyone in. It’s too much risk, a distraction. Thank God Conrad wasn’t around today; he’d have torn me apart for every slip.
At home, I reheat the leftovers his mother loaded into my arms, but the taste is poison now.
Every bite is tied to him. I try to scold myself, to remember we haven’t even kissed and I’m teetering on the edge of acting like we're betrothed, bartered for a calf and ten eggs like some old family agreement. But I can't deny that want, raw and dangerous, still feels addictive. It’s met with only silence. I glance at the clock. 8:05 p.m. Well, fuck him. If Dominik decides to come crawling back, I’ll make him wait twice as long as he’s made me wait. Or maybe I won’t answer at all.
Who goes all in and then all out in twenty-four hours?
What if he isn’t safe? What if there was an accident? I shove it down. Shower. Hair twisted into a towel. Phone on the counter, screen dark. I glance every few minutes anyway. Finally, I break.
Just checking you’re safe?
You and Zosia? Alive?
Plenty alive and with me
Don’t text him again dziwka
I don’t. I just hold the phone, stare until the screen dims and my own reflection looks back at me. So, he's with someone and he didn't even bother to let me know? Someone that has no problem calling me dziwka? A whore?
Obelus screams through my speakers, the song burning in my chest, fury and grief colliding until I can’t breathe. The lyrics soothe, they always have when I need them most, reminding me what happens when you let anyone inside.
Pierce my skin, your teeth branded
Every scar knows the lies you fed.
Naked nerves where your hands landed,
Hurt sinks deep on the path you led.
I don’t cry the way I thought I would. Instead, the crisis training kicks in, doctor mode 101.
Complete one task, then the next. I scrape the leftovers into the trash.
Rinse the plate. Set it to dry. I dry my hair, tears streaking down my cheeks but hands steady on the towel.
I put on my pajamas, fold the day away piece by piece until everything is neat, contained, finished.
Right before I set my alarm, I open my phone. My thumb hovers for a long moment. Then I block him.