His Little Heart

All Good In Here

Journal entry 2, November 1st, 2026, written by Luna Weathers and granted permission to be read by Dr. Thomas Hiddleston

Dear Journal,

Not even five minutes after I put this notebook down, Nurse Harry appeared, showing up earlier than expected. Like he always did, he knocked gently before announcing himself and asking how I was holding up. I told him I was fine.

A bloody lie.

If I was fine, I wouldn't be here. If I was fine, I wouldn't be writing in this stupid little book Dr. Hiddleston gave me, believing writing to be a possible outlet to help regulate myself and make sense of my world. If I was fine, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't need to be worried over, fussed over, considered high-risk. If I was fine, I wouldn't bear these scars I have, wrapped in invisible bandages that do nothing to hide them. If I was fine, really fine, maybe, Nurse Harry, in his pink scrubs, wouldn't have appeared at my door then, knocking respectfully before asking to come in. Maybe, he wouldn't have taken me to that little room one floor below this one, where, in our usual meeting place, Dr. Hiddleston waited. Maybe.....just maybe...if I was really fine....I wouldn't be where I am now. I wouldn't have to lie about my reflection.

Anywho.

I get ahead of myself.

Or, as is becoming habit, I am thinking of another version of myself I know can't ever exist, an imposter with a better story. One that didn't promise herself she'd tell this new chapter as best she could, despite whatever happened, came next, scared and uncertain and not sure if she really should.

Well.

Again, we're chasing after a girl that isn't real. Best we get back on topic, return to this story about myself.

Right.

Pink scrubs, green eyes, a kind face standing outside my door, waiting patiently for permission to enter before doing anything else. A nurse, the one I met that night I first arrived who stayed with me, Nurse Harry.

Nurse Harry.

A good fella.

I told him I was fine, a lie I knew he didn't believe, but didn't comment about. Instead, after asking if he could, he peered into my small blue room, standing in the little doorway. He gave a quick glance and then, as I knew he would, asked, "We all good in here?"

Yep.

We're all good in here.

Never been better.

Another lie.

He said nothing and gave me a thumbs up. "Hungry?"

Not really. Haven't been since everything fell apart, but that didn't really matter. I could lie all I wanted and say I was fine and still, he'd encourage me to eat, take me down to the cafeteria or, if I didn't have it in me to venture far from my room, bring me up something. And, if he did that, he'd set whatever meal he found on the small table in my room and keep me company, monitoring to make sure I eat something before eventually leaving to note my poor appetite (again) in my file. A file Dr. Hiddleston would review later, along with Dr. Cumberbatch, again noting my deteriorating state.

"Yeah," I lied.

"Cafeteria?"

"I suppose."

Harry grinned, stepping back out into the corridor. I followed, and together, we headed down the hallway, white and bright blue – colors of this unit I called home belonging to the Youth Crisis Stabilization Unit – and towards the waiting elevators. We passed the nurses station, which sat empty, and I asked where Nurse Louis was, his blue scrubs missing. Harry said he'd been called to the main hospital and would be back later, promise.

Down we went, one quick ride to the lower floor, Harry leading the way to the cafeteria. He told me to pick a table and I did, a small corner table tucked near the back, out of the way and invisible. He went off to get the food, and I, whenever out in public space, scanned the room, which, thankfully, was mostly empty. Only a few doctors were there, on their lunch break, their white coats standing out against the green walls. I didn't look long, averting my gaze.

Harry returned, setting a tray before me. He sat opposite me with his own tray. He told me, kind as always, but concerned, to eat only what I could. I didn't need to finish the entire plate, just take a few small bites.

I tried.

Truly, I did. There was cut fruit, watermelon, and a grilled sandwich. Chips, and a small chocolate chip cookie, bitterly sweet. I poked at the fruit, stabbed the sandwich, and, really, only had the chips, the only manageable thing that didn't feel like I was about to swallow daggers. They were alright, the chips, plain and boring, and crispy. They went crunch, crunch, crunch, a grounding sound that kept me seated. The cookie I didn't even bother with, offering it to Nurse Harry, who kindly declined it. It was here I expected him to try and encourage me to eat just a little more, to try the sandwich, to attempt one little bite.

He didn't.

I appreciated that.