FIFTY-TWO
JORDIE
My legs carry me out of his door. To the corridor that smells faintly of old carpet and someone’s burned toast. To the lifts that move too slow. To the empty parking lot. Every step away from his door feels like carving pieces of myself with a dull knife.
I keep waiting for it to get easier. It doesn’t.
I tell myself this is what love is: sometimes doing the hard thing, the right thing.
Maybe one day Callum will look back and understand.
Maybe he’ll thank me. When he’s holding his child with a woman who fits seamlessly into his family, who can give him everything I can’t, he’ll look back and think, Jordie did the right thing.
I climb into my car. The instinct to turn around rises in me like a tide. I want to go back upstairs, undo everything, throw my arms around him, kiss him until he forgets every awful thing I said.
Instead, I jam the key in. The engine coughs awake. I force the car into reverse, into drive, into movement.
Streetlights smear across the windshield like someone has dragged a wet brush through the city.
My chest feels like it’s collapsing in slow motion. A star imploding, no explosion, just a silent folding inward.
When I can’t take it anymore, I swing onto a side street lined with jacaranda trees whose blossoms look black at night.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder.
Callum.
I let it ring out.
It stops. Starts again. Stops. Starts again.
Each time, his name lights up the car. Each time, I sit there with my hands clenched around the steering wheel, breathing like the air has teeth.
By the sixth call, I know he isn’t going to stop.
Because Callum Han doesn’t leave things half-done. Not patients. Not arguments. Not me.
And if I hear his voice, if he says my name even once, I’ll lose my grip on the belief that this pain has a purpose.
So I do the sensible thing.
The cruel thing.
I turn my phone off.
I let my forehead rest against the steering wheel, breath snagging in my throat.
Tears stream freely now—hot, angry, aching—streaking down my cheeks, pooling at my jaw.
My mind plays cruel games, conjuring up images of him: Callum laughing at some stupid joke I made, Callum’s thumb tracing circles on my knee when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, Callum’s eyes softening whenever he sees me.
I slam my fist into the wheel. Once. Twice. Again.
“Dammit!” I shout to no one. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”
I drag in a breath that tastes like rubber and salt.
Maybe this is love. The kind that isn’t romantic or joyful or easy or the stuff of songs people write about. Maybe it’s messy and raw and aching. An act of demolition disguised as devotion. A choice you make over and over, even as it rips you open.
That’s what I’m doing. Loving him. Even if it kills me a little more each time.
I’ll learn to live inside the ruins of it.
Morning. Or maybe afternoon? Time has blurred into something shapeless.
Eventually, I pick up my phone
When I turn it back on, the screen floods with notifications, as if the world has been knocking this whole time and I’ve finally cracked the door open.
A couple are from Leith, telling me he’s in Manila and promising to bring me home goodies for when he gets back.
There are several coupons from that pizza place, which feels almost offensive in its optimism.
And then there’s Callum.
Seventy-nine missed calls. Voicemails.
Messages long enough to qualify as sonnets from the few lines visible in the preview bar.
I delete every one without opening them.
Then I call work before I can do something catastrophic, like listen to his voice.
My fingers tremble as I punch in the number. When the line connects, my voice comes out raw, scratchy from tears I didn’t think I had left. “This is Jordanna Mitchell. Casual Nurse. Employee Number 188627. I’m canceling all my shifts this week.”
There’s a pause, the faint shuffle of papers on the other end. Then Rhonda’s voice, “What’s going on, Jordie?”
I force the words out. “I’ll call again Sunday to confirm or cancel next week’s shifts.”
“Is everything okay?” Her tone is suddenly concerned.
“No.”
I hang up and turn my phone off before she can press further.
The phone slips from my hand. I stare at it, dark and lifeless, daring me to turn it back on. To type out apologies I can’t bring myself to send. To call him.
But I don’t. I can’t. Because if I turn it back on, I’ll cave. I’ll do something reckless, like try to fix what I’ve already broken.
So, I leave the phone where it falls—face down, dead—and walk away.
The bell over the door stays silent.
Eleanor’s Book Barn is officially closed for stocktake week. She insisted she didn’t need help. But I showed up anyway. She took one look at me, lips thinning, then pointed me toward a pile of historical hardbacks.
We didn’t say much after that.
I don’t know how many days it’s been. Three? Five? My phone’s dead somewhere at home, and I’ve stopped caring. The world could be burning, and I wouldn’t know. Actually, it feels like it is. Just not in a way anyone else can see.
Right now, I’m simply existing in rows of books.
“Hmmm. Where to put this?” I face the shelf, a copy of 1984 in my hand.
Footsteps behind me. I hear the door creak, but don’t turn.
“House Mouse, let’s go home.”
The faint scent of Leith’s cologne drifts to me—clean, woody, tinged with the sharpness of airplane air.
I don’t turn. Just slide the book halfway onto the shelf.
“Eleanor called me,” Leith says carefully.
My hands hover midair, clutching the book, undecided where to put it. “It’s dystopian. But also a political allegory. And then there’s the whole—”
“Jordie,” he says, stepping behind me. “Let it go.”
“It has to go somewhere. It has to—”
“It doesn’t.” His hand brushes my shoulder, carefully reaching for the book in my hand.
I clutch it tighter. “No.” My voice cracks, the words tumbling out, jagged. “I need to fix this. I need to fix this!”
My hold is desperate until his calm, unyielding grip pries it loose.
The book slips from my hands. And with it, I collapse into him, sobs coming hard and fast, ripped from some place dark. Raw.
He wraps his arms around me, firm and gentle all at once, as I come undone.
“You don’t have to fix it,” Leith murmurs softly against my hair. “Just let me be here.”
He’s right. This can’t be fixed.
Some things just break and keep breaking.
I didn’t need just one week. I called Rhonda on Sunday and canceled the next week, as well.
But now I’m back at work. Because I don’t have a choice. Because a week wasn’t enough. Two weeks weren’t enough. A fucking lifetime won’t be enough.
I plaster on a smile. Laugh at things that aren’t funny. Pretend my heart isn’t a fault line threatening to split open mid-shift.
Because my patients are walking through hell—cancer, grief, death—and they deserve a nurse who’s brave. Who can hold a hand without her own shaking. Who can talk about pain without letting hers bleed through.
Callum and I passed each other in the corridors, once or twice. He didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even blink in my direction.
It’s okay, I tell myself. I can fall apart at home.
Then, I was assigned to one of Callum’s cases. I was already outside Theater Six, mask on, notes in hand, when I heard his voice inside.
“Mitchell’s not going to work out. Where’s Heather?”
The coordinator stammered, “Heather’s with Dr. Wallis. It’s a complex—”
“Give me anyone,” Callum snapped. “James, for all I care.”
I’d swallowed it whole. Accepted it.
So, in week three, I pulled myself off the critical care roster. Out of his orbit entirely.Because I made this mess, the least I could do was give him space.
Now it’s week four. I sit in the cafeteria, nursing a cold tea and trying not to feel like a ghost in my own body.
A crash slices through the noise, tray hitting the ground. Then the thud of a body.
I see it across the room—an elderly man with a visitor’s badge collapses near the entrance. I leave my cup and cross the space without thought.
“Sir? Can you hear me?” I kneel beside him.
No response.
Callum appears opposite me, dropping to his knees. His fingers press against the man’s neck.
“No pulse,” he says flat. Controlled. “Not breathing.”
“Starting compressions,” I lace my fingers together and press into the sternum.
“Opening the airway,” he says, tilting the patient’s head.
Someone bolts for the defibrillator. Another for a bag-valve-mask. Alec’s voice behind us, calling for a stretcher team.
I keep counting. One, two, three—
On the second cycle, something flares behind my ribs. A twist of pain.
My breath stutters. Shoulders hitch. But I continue.
“Switch,” Callum says.
“I’m fine,” I grit, compressions not faltering.
“Switch,” he snaps, sharper this time.
I don’t argue. I just move—let him take over.
The BVM arrives. I grab it, take over the airway. Press. Release. Count. Breathe.
Pads are attached shortly.
“Shockable rhythm,” Callum calls. “Clear!”
The man jolts. No pulse. More compressions.
The stretcher arrives, and we transfer.
“I’ll go with,” I say, already on the head.
“No.” Callum doesn’t look at me when he says it. Just gestures to another nurse. “You. Take over bagging. Let’s move.”
“I’m already—”
“I said no,” Callum says, still on the patient’s chest.
“But—”
“I said stand down, Nurse Mitchell.”
I freeze. Long enough to feel the heat rise in my chest and then burn through the back of my throat. A nurse takes the bag from my hand.
Callum doesn’t look at me. Just walks away—compressions steady, shoulders squared, voice cool as he calls the next instructions down the corridor.
I stand there rooted, blinking hard against the sting in my eyes as footsteps, stretcher wheels, and medical chatter all fade down the hallway like a retreating tide.
A shadow moves into my periphery. Alec. “Jordie?” His voice is soft, like gauze that still scratches.
I shake my head. A silent, reflexive no.
“Hey,” he tries again, stepping closer. “Are you—?”
I don’t let him finish. I turn. Walk. Through the double doors. Past the fire exit. Down the corridor until I reach a cleaner’s closet with a crooked sign. I shove the door open, step inside, and close it behind me.
My chest rises and falls in erratic bursts. My mouth opens around the threat of a sob, but I bite it back.
A click behind me. The door creaks open.
Alec steps inside cautiously. “Jordie . . . hey. Are you okay?”
A brittle sound escapes me, caught between a laugh and a strangle. “What the fuck do you think?”
He flinches.
“Go away, Alec.”
“I can’t leave you like this—”
“Can’t leave me now?” My laugh cracks open—wild, gutted, ugly. “But you could leave me then. You could pack up, disappear, leave me like roadkill. But this is what you can’t walk away from?”
His inhale is audible.
“Five years, Alec!” My voice splinters. “And I’m still as gutted as the day you fucking left.”
Tears spill over now, hot and furious. I turn away. Don’t want him to see me like this when he’s fucking happy and has everything I can’t have.
“I’m sorry,” Alec blurts. “I’m sorry I hurt you—”
“Hurt?” I whip around to face him. My voice cracks, rising. “You didn’t hurt me, Alec. You broke me. You ruined me. You—”
You made me hate my own fucking skin.
I choke out, “You dismantled me. Piece by piece. And you left me to build myself back out of scraps I didn’t even believe were worth saving.”
He opens his mouth, but I talk over him, “Every room I walked into, I was waiting for someone to leave, waiting for them to see what you saw and run.”
I swipe at my face, the motion sharp, pointless.
“That’s why I—I—” My voice breaks completely. That’s why I pushed Callum away. That’s why I’m standing here bleeding all over the floor.
“I gave you everything, Alec. I loved you with the last solid parts of me. But it all boiled down to the one thing I can’t give you. And now—”
I break down. The words coming out helpless. Sad. Pathetic. “—now I can’t survive what you did to me twice.”
He reaches for me.
“Don’t.” I step back. “Don’t touch me.”
His hand drops. His face folds in on itself.
“Just go,” I whisper. “Please, Alec. Just go.”
He hesitates for a beat. And then he leaves. Quietly. No parting words. No defense.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I sink down onto an overturned mop bucket, elbows on knees, head in hands.
What I felt for Alec, whatever it was, it wasn’t this.
It didn’t hurt, sting, pinch, burn, gnaw, ache like this.
Didn’t feel like losing oxygen. Or ripping out your own heart. Or holding on and letting go at the same time. Or dying ten times over every single day.
With Alec, that wasn’t the love I know now.
Callum was.
Callum is.
Callum will always be.
And I let him go.