𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 (on hold)

| 𝟎𝟏 |

Ten years, three months, and eighteen days. That was how long I had gone without seeing him. And I had absolutely no regrets.

That was what I told myself every night for the first three years. It didn't matter that he was gone. It didn't matter that I would never see him again. And it definitely didn't matter that he didn't even say goodbye.

I told myself for years that the only reason I missed him was because I was fourteen. What fourteen year old wouldn't have a crush on their older, significantly taller friend?

But then it had been three years, and I was seventeen, and it was really weird that I was still hung up about a boy I never really should've cared about.

Ten years, three months, and eighteen days without him. Until right now.

Just seeing him, even though he looked so different, pushed memories to the front of my mind. Bright yellow slides, grazed knees, bikes with pink tassels, peeled tangerines, temporary tattoos and his old DVD player in the basement.

From the ages of five until fourteen, I had known him. Through his bowl cuts, dyed eyebrows, beaded necklaces, all the way until his awkward long hair stage, when I had plaited it for him.

The last time I had seen him, he'd been sixteen with a newly shaven buzz-cut. I had been fourteen, with braces and a neon orange handbag I carried everywhere. The height of fashion.

He had been only two years older than me, but we were leagues apart. I didn't blame my younger self for having a crush on him. Who wouldn't? I saw him everyday, for hours at a time, and he had liked me.

And sure, maybe he looked alright too.

Now, he had definitely looked better, that was for sure. Pale, clammy skin, bloody shirt and gritted teeth. And me, stood at the foot of his bed, with a clipboard.

"Male, aged twenty-six. No known past medical conditions. Two gunshot wounds to the lower abdomen. Believed to be caused by a close range weapon, possibly a pistol. Morphine has been administered."

I nodded,
"Thank you, Simon."

The paramedics finally stepped away, and I sighed, running a hand through my hair,
"We're in fucking England. Where are people getting guns?"

Niamh shrugged, already pulling gloves onto her hands,
"We're in London, June. There's probably someone on this street with a machete."

I let out a small laugh, glancing back at our patient. He had grown since we were fourteen, but so had I. Soft curves now sat where my body used to be flat, whereas he seemed to have just gotten broader.

A nurse pulled back the soaked material of his shirt, and he groaned. I swallowed at the sight of his chest,
"Shit. That's more than just two bullet wounds."

Long, jagged cuts ran across his upper chest, oozing blood down his front. I couldn't see the bullet's entrance wounds clearly through the shredded flesh.

I looked across his body to Niamh, stating the obvious,
"I need this cleaned and those cuts sanitised and stitched."

Niamh nodded, and the whole team burst into action. I moved up the bed towards his face. He was clinging an oxygen mask to his mouth so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and his breathing was jagged, shaking his bloodied chest.

"Can you hear me?"

He nodded, and I nodded back,
"Good. My name is Dr Ellis. Can I get confirmation on whether you still have two bullets inside of you?"