Skies & Florets

Chapter 11

QUENTIN

The morning rush hits me like a wave when I enter the hospital. I can already sense that it will be one of those days. The kind where there's no time to think, no space to breathe—just patient after patient, each with their problems and pain.

My shoes squeak against the polished floors as I move down the hallway, already feeling the strain before the day has even properly begun.

I glance at the list of patients I have lined up for the day. It's longer than usual. A mix of follow-ups, new cases, and a few emergency consults that have been squeezed in last minute. It's always like this—constant demands, never enough time. Sometimes, I wonder if there's ever a moment of peace in this profession. But then again, this is what I signed up for. This is what I've trained for.

The first patient is an elderly man with persistent chest pains. His daughter is beside him, her worry etched into every line of her face. I listen to his symptoms, run through the usual checks, and order some tests.

It's routine, but it takes time. Time, I don't have to spare. As soon as I'm done, I move on to the next patient—a young mother with a sick child, followed by an athlete complaining of knee pain.

By noon, I'm already exhausted, and the day is only half over.

I stand in front of the break room door, hand on the knob, debating whether I have the luxury of taking five minutes to myself. I sigh and push the door open, stepping into the quiet space. The room is small, just a table and a few chairs, a coffee machine that's seen better days, and a window that offers a limited view of the outside world. I pour myself a cup of coffee, taking a moment to lean against the counter and let the warmth of the cup soothe my hands.

But even in this brief moment of reprieve, I can't shake the feeling of being overwhelmed.

The c o n s t a n t pressure of knowing that each decision I make affects someone's life weighs heavily on me. It's not just about diagnosing illnesses or prescribing medications; it's about being the person people turn to when they're scared, vulnerable, or in pain.

I take a sip of coffee, hoping it will give me the boost I need to get through the rest of the day. As the liquid hits my throat, I close my eyes for a brief second, trying to push away the mounting stress.

But instead of finding calm, my mind wanders to thoughts of Lilac again.

It's strange how she keeps slipping into my thoughts like this. She's become a kind of escape for me, a reminder of simpler times. Times when I didn't feel this crushing weight of responsibility.