✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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The scalpel felt like an extension of my hand, a delicate, weightless instrument of precision. The air in the operating room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the low, steady hum of the machines that kept our patient tethered to life. I felt no fear, only a deep, abiding calm that was my constant companion in this world. It was a calm born not of detachment, but of absolute focus, a sanctuary I had built for myself, brick by brick, over a decade.
My gaze was locked on the field, a small, intricate world of blood vessels and neural pathways under the bright, unforgiving lights. My head, Dr. Smita Mukherjee, was a few inches from me, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was a legend in our field, a neurosurgeon who spoke in quiet commands and whose hands were a miracle of steadiness and grace. For the past four years, she had been my teacher, my mentor, my guide, and in many ways, a replacement for the mother I had lost.
"Scalpel," she murmured, her voice a soft command.
I passed it to her without a word, our movements a perfectly synchronized ballet. We were working on a critical case, a patient with a massive tumor encroaching on the brainstem. It was a case that most surgeons would deem inoperable, a case that promised death and little else. But Smita had a way of looking at impossibility and seeing a puzzle to be solved. And I, her newly minted doctor, her protégé, was there to help her solve it.
"Suction," she said, and I moved in, clearing the field so she could see.
My heart was a steady, rhythmic drum against my ribs. I had been in here for seven hours straight, assisting Smita as she navigated the treacherous landscape of the human brain. Every second was a delicate balance between progress and catastrophe. One wrong move, one tremor of the hand, could lead to a stroke, paralysis, or worse. The weight of that responsibility was immense, but it was a weight I carried willingly. It was the weight of saving a life.
It was a beautiful contrast to the life I was forced to live outside these walls. Here, in this cold, sterile room, I was in control. My purpose was pure. My hands, which had once felt the stinging heat of a fiery explosion, were now dedicated to stitching life back together.
