13. Two Worlds
Two Worlds
Sleep refuses me. I close my eyes, press my face into the couch cushion, will my body to drop back under but it doesn’t come.
The adrenaline won’t let me. The exam, the text, the selfie.
It’s all still in my veins, sparking, impossible to silence.
So, I reach for the worst possible cure: my phone.
The flood is already there. Fan accounts churning, edits stitched together within hours, the concert isn't even over yet but screenshots are plastered across timelines. The sunglasses, already everywhere.
“He looks like a vampire king, never take them off.”
“He can keep them on in bed for all I care.”
“No more Obelus eyes… I’m crying.”
I laugh and cringe at the same time but I can’t deny it’s intoxicating and unbearable all at once.
Because this time, I know. The glasses everyone’s losing their minds over?
He showed me first. He asked me if they worked.
He wore them because I suggested them. Every meme, every thirst post, every fan swearing they’d die to lick those ridiculous lenses, all of it traces back to one message I sent mentioning sunglasses.
That’s the part that feels dangerous. The knowing, the being on this side of the curtain, closer than I was ever supposed to be. I let the videos roll, shaky and ecstatic, the crowd screaming into distorted microphones. There he is, my patient, Obelus.
No one else will see it. The small flinches when the lights burst too brightly.
The faint hesitation before he dives into a riff, the way his head tilts just slightly away from a spotlight, like a man trying not to look at the sun.
I can feel my thoughts getting carried away and I scold myself, a mirror of Conrad in my mind’s eye.
Dr. Katarzyna Sawadzka, MD, Ophthalmology, top of your class, valedictorian, I recite in my head, full name and accolades like I’m reading them off my diplomas.
Collect yourself. This is not romance. This is not intimacy.
This is a standard eye exam, a bottle of Tropicamide, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses. That’s it.
I take a breath. I think of Dominik, of little Zosia’s hand in mine.
Of all the years I clawed my way here, the license on my wall, the career I built.
Fantasies don’t pay malpractice insurance, they don’t keep my job secure or the partners happy.
My jaw sets, but my body doesn’t believe me.
I can still feel the weight of his stare, still hear the rough edge of his voice in my exam room.
I can still see the way he looked at me before he walked out.
My younger self is screaming. Here he is, talking to me of all people and I’m rejecting him?
Ignoring him? But if this goes wrong for him, he’s still a millionaire with the world at his feet.
If it goes wrong for me, it’s everything.
My license, my reputation. No one will take me seriously if I get caught sending messages with my patient like some lovesick teenager, violating every ethical line we're meant to hold.
It's hard enough to be respected in my field as a woman.
If this got out? I haven't crossed a line yet, not technically, but I'd dread to think how the referrals would stop and I could forget making partner.
I shouldn't have given him my number but it was too much pressure with those eyes on me.
I sigh and bite the inside of my cheek. This is stupid.
No, no more messages. No more swooning. I won't risk it, not even for the mighty Obelus.
Nothing but pupils. Nothing but protocol. Yet, when I close my eyes again, I’m lit up like I’m under the stage lights too. Then another buzz. My heart leaps, traitor that it is, expecting him. But it’s Dominik.
A photo, lit soft by a lamp. Zosia sprawled across his chest in pink pajamas, her little hand still gripping the corner of a book. He’s half-tilted on her bed, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, one arm curled protectively around her.
would call
unable to move
The words make something inside me unclench. Just like that, I’m not in some tour bus fantasy or drowning in the Obelus’s eyes. I’m here, in this world. The one where a man reads to his daughter until she falls asleep. I smile into the phone.
Stay there, don’t wake her. You both look too cute for words.
I feel the ground under my feet again.
Sunday morning, my phone buzzes just as I’m reheating leftovers, and Aga’s name flashes on the screen. I swipe, already bracing myself, because Aga never calls mid-afternoon unless something’s wrong.
“Kasia,” she breathes, no hello, just panic in two syllables. “Our sitter canceled. Piotr and I… we actually have a reservation. Just one night out, finally.” In the background I hear the baby fussing, Kacper’s squeal, a pot clattering. She sounds one meltdown away from tears.
I tuck the phone between my shoulder and ear, wipe my hands on a dish towel. “What about Natalia?”
Aga groans, like the very word is a curse. “Busy. Apparently some influencer thing downtown. Just got her nails done, can’t ‘risk the polish’ while babysitting. She said Kacper would ‘destroy the aesthetic.’” The sarcasm in Aga’s voice could etch glass.
I roll my eyes so hard they nearly get stuck. “Of course. How tragic for her brand.”
“Kasia, please.” Aga’s tone softens, pleading. “It’s just dinner, a couple of hours. Kacper’s easy once he’s down. I just… I can’t handle canceling again. Piotr will sulk for weeks.”
I bite my lip. “You know I’m on call tonight. If something comes up—”
“Yes, yes,” Aga jumps in, relief spilling so fast she almost trips over her words. “If you get called in, we’ll come right back. I promise.”
If anyone deserves two uninterrupted hours with wine and no children, it’s Aga. And Piotr, for all his bluster, would probably act like a wounded dog for months if this fell through.
“Fine,” I sigh, though warmth creeps in before I’m even done saying it. “I’ll come. Go have your fancy date, as long as you bring me dessert.”
Aga exhales like I just lifted the world off her shoulders. “You’re a saint, Kasia, truly. Just come to the house around seven. Kacper will already be in pajamas, it should be easy. Thank you.”
“Saint?” I snort. “You’ll owe me at least three Grze?ki for this.”
She laughs, bright and relieved, and the line clicks dead before I can change my mind.
By the time I pull into Aga and Piotr’s driveway, I’ve talked myself into it.
One evening, a few bedtime stories, maybe a diaper change.
Easy. I even brought a tote bag stuffed with snacks and the book I’ve been meaning to read for a month, just in case Kacper decides to actually sleep on schedule for once.
I barely make it to the front step before the door swings open and there he is.
Dominik. Sitting cross-legged on the rug, sleeves rolled up, hair a little mussed, helping Zosia build a tower of plastic blocks. She beams at him like he hung the moon, giggling every time the tower wobbles.
I freeze, tote bag dangling off my shoulder. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”