QUENTIN
It's been an endless string of long days—patient after patient, chart after chart. The hum of the hospital is always present, an ever-constant reminder of the lives moving through it. Today feels no different, another day of checkups, another day of faces that blur together. I barely have time to breathe before the next case comes in.
My mind has been on autopilot since I started this journey.
I'm in the middle of reviewing a patient's chart when my phone rings, the sharp sound cutting through the sterile silence of the room. I glance at the screen. Annie, one of my secretaries. Something in my gut twists, and I answer the call.
"Dr. Quentin, I—" Annie's voice wavers, and I already know what she's going to say. "It's Micah."
The room tilts for a second, like the world's spinning too fast.
"She didn't make it through surgery. I'm so sorry."
The words hit me like a physical blow. For a moment, I forget how to breathe.
Micah. . .
Sweet, strong Micah. She wasn't supposed to die. She was supposed to fight through it, beat the odds like she always has.
She was supposed to live. . .
"I. . . I'm coming," I manage to say, though my voice cracks. I hang up and practically sprint down the hallway, my heart thundering in my chest.
I can barely see the faces of my colleagues as I pass them by.
The hospital feels like a m a z e, the walls closing in around me. It's too bright, too sterile, and yet I feel like I'm drowning. My legs move on their own, my mind replaying every conversation with Micah, every smile, every bit of hope she had for the future.
When I reach the room, I stop at the door, unable to push it open. The air feels heavy, like it's pushing against me. My chest tightens, and I know, I just know that when I step inside, everything will change.
I push the door open.
Micah's small body lies motionless on the bed, the machines around her turned off, the tubes and wires disconnected.
YOU ARE READING
Skies & Florets
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