I hold her gaze a second too long.
“Thank you,” I say, sharper than necessary. “I’m very aware of how my words land. I’ve been doing this for years.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just nods and steps back into the room.
I exhale slowly once she’s gone. That shouldn’t have unsettled me.
It did.
Later, I’m reviewing notes when I realize something’s missing.
Room 412 again. I look up, expecting to see her there.
She isn’t.
Trudy is instead, speaking quietly to the patient while adjusting the IV.
The feeling of the absence is brief. Pointless. But I notice it anyway.
Annoying. I finish what I’m doing and move on.
The day drags toward evening, the way my days always do—long stretches of control, punctuated by moments that remind me how thin it all is.
As I wrap up my last consult, I see her one final time at the nurses’ station, typing quickly, focused.
She looks up as I approach.
“Anything else before I head out?” she asks.
It’s a normal question. It feels loaded anyway.
“No,” I say. “That’s all.”
She gives a small nod. “Okay. Have a good night.”
She turns away before I can respond.
I watch her for half a second longer than necessary, irritation prickling low in my chest. I don’t know why she’s under my skin.
I don’t want to know.
I leave later than I should.
The halls are quieter now, the unit settling into its night rhythm. As I walk toward my office, I force my focus back where it belongs—on the patients, on the work, on the things I can control.
Whatever this is—this awareness, this disruption—it’s inconvenient.
Unwelcome.
And it will not be indulged.
Tomorrow, I’ll keep my distance. Tomorrow, this will stop mattering.I tell myself that as I turn out the light.
I don’t believe it.
Chapter Five
Melissa