unexpected love (Leah Williamson)

Breaking Point

Ella's POV:

The trauma of the job was something I had learned to live with. Long hours, difficult cases, and moments that made me question my own strength—it was all part of being a pediatric surgeon. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened one cold Thursday afternoon.

It started like any other shift at the hospital. The ER was packed, and I was running between rooms, trying to manage all my patients. But then came a case that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

A little girl, no more than six years old, was rushed in after a car accident. Her mother was hysterical, crying, screaming as she clung to her daughter's limp body. I barely registered the details, just that it was bad—really bad. My team worked swiftly to stabilize the girl, but it was clear that she was in critical condition.

As I stepped into the trauma bay, I barely took a breath before the reality of the situation hit me. I looked down at the girl—her small chest rising and falling with labored breaths, her face pale and covered in bruises. I forced myself to focus, to think. There was no time for hesitation.

But as I worked, the faces around me blurred. All I could see was the girl's face, her innocent eyes staring up at me, begging for help. In those moments, it wasn't just the medical skills that mattered. It was my heart, the emotional toll of knowing that this girl's life was in my hands—and that her mother's heart was breaking.

I don't remember much about the procedure itself. I just remember the rush of adrenaline, the constant monitoring of vitals, and the endless sense of dread. I couldn't shake the thought that we were losing her, that despite all the machines, all the knowledge, and everything I had learned over the years, it wasn't enough.

It wasn't enough.

Her heart stopped.

A feeling of pure helplessness washed over me as the room fell silent, the beeping of the heart monitor replaced by the hollow echo of the crash team's voices as they called the time of death. I stood there frozen, numb, watching as they covered her body. It was over. The little girl, who had only moments ago been clinging to life, was gone.

I staggered back, pressing a hand to my face, but the tears wouldn't come. They never came when I needed them most. Instead, I felt empty. All the pain, the fear, the frustration—the crushing weight of it all—piled up inside me.

Leah's POV:

When I saw Ella later that evening, she was different. Her usual calm, steady demeanor was replaced with something colder, more distant. She barely spoke during dinner, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. It was like she was physically present but mentally a thousand miles away.

We were sitting on her couch, the silence between us stretching long enough that I couldn't ignore the tension. I'd asked if she was okay—repeatedly—but she just shrugged, saying it had been a tough day at work. But I knew something was wrong. Ella wasn't one to brush things off so easily.

"Ella, talk to me," I said softly, my voice full of concern. I reached out, placing a hand on hers, feeling the tremor in her fingers. "What happened?"

She closed her eyes briefly, taking a long breath before looking at me. The words came out in a broken whisper. "I lost a patient today. A little girl. She... she didn't make it."

The pain in her voice cut through me like a knife. I squeezed her hand tighter, moving closer to her. "I'm so sorry, Ella. That's... that's devastating. I can't even imagine."

Ella's voice wavered as she spoke again. "I thought I was ready for this. I thought after everything I've seen, I could handle it. But when it happened... when she died... I felt like I failed. I couldn't save her. And I couldn't stop thinking about her mother. She's never going to hold her daughter again, and I couldn't do anything to fix it."

I could see the guilt in her eyes, the weight of the moment crushing her. It was a pain I knew well—when you give everything you have to help someone, and it still isn't enough. The feeling of failure was overwhelming, suffocating.

"You didn't fail," I said softly but firmly, my heart aching for her. "You did everything you could, Ella. You're an incredible surgeon. I know you did everything possible."

But she shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. "It doesn't feel like enough. It never feels like enough."

I pulled her into my arms, holding her close, letting her cry quietly into my shoulder. It wasn't a loud, explosive release of emotion—just a steady stream of silent tears as she let the pain out.

"I'm here, Ella," I whispered, stroking her hair gently. "I'm not going anywhere. You're not alone in this."

I could feel her shaking against me, and I realized how much she needed that. The support, the comfort. She was so strong, always giving everything for others, but in that moment, she needed to be taken care of, to be held. And I was more than willing to do that for her.

Ella's POV:

The next few days were a blur. I went to work, but my heart wasn't in it. The weight of the little girl's death clung to me, pressing down on every moment, every decision. I found myself replaying the incident in my mind, wondering if I'd missed something, wondering if there had been something I could've done differently.

I kept my distance from everyone, even Leah. I didn't want her to see how deeply it had affected me. I didn't want her to think I was weak or that I couldn't handle it. But the truth was, I wasn't sure I could. The emotional toll was like a storm inside me, and I couldn't escape it.

It wasn't until Leah showed up at my flat, unannounced, that I finally broke. She stood in the doorway, her eyes soft with concern.

"I'm here, Ella," she said quietly. "I'm not leaving until you talk to me. You don't have to go through this alone."

Her words were the lifeline I hadn't realized I needed. Slowly, I walked toward her, my legs unsteady, and I let her hold me again. This time, I didn't fight it. I let myself break, let the grief spill out in quiet sobs as she held me close, not speaking, just being there for me in a way that words never could.

And in her arms, I found some semblance of peace. She didn't ask me to stop feeling the way I did. She didn't push me to be okay. She simply let me feel it all, and in that moment, I realized that maybe I didn't have to be okay all the time. Maybe it was okay to let myself heal—slowly, in my own time.

With Leah by my side, I knew I could find my way through this storm.