Breathless ✓

Ten ✔

The rhythmic hum of the car's engine fills the space as Christian navigates the streets, the cityscape passing by in a blur. The air inside the car is charged with an unspoken tension, a sense of vulnerability lingering in the corners of our shared silence.

Christian glances at me, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern. "What caused the nightmare?" he asks gently.

I hesitate for a moment, grappling with the decision to unveil a piece of my past. The weight of the memory presses against my chest, but there's something in Christian's demeanor that encourages a rare vulnerability. "It's something from my childhood," I begin, my voice a soft murmur. "I was almost drowned when I was twelve."

His eyes widen, registering the gravity of my words. "I'm sorry," he offers sincerely.

I nod, appreciating the genuine empathy in his response. "It was a traumatic experience, and the nightmares linger. I've tried therapy and coping mechanisms, but some scars run too deep."

Christian's grip on the steering wheel tightens subtly, a silent acknowledgment of the pain hidden within my words. "You don't have to share more than you're comfortable with," he assures me.

I offer a small, grateful smile. "I appreciate that. It's just one of those things that never truly fades away. The fear of drowning, the darkness, the feeling of helplessness—it all comes back in fragments."

The car hums along, the city streets winding around us, and I'm left with the realization that sharing this fragment of my past doesn't feel as daunting as I expected. 

Christian pulls the car to a stop in front of the hospital entrance, and for a moment, we sit in companionable silence. 

He turns to me, his eyes carrying a depth of understanding. "Victoria, I'll be here to pick you up on time. Don't worry about a thing. Focus on your work, and if you need anything, just let me know."

I manage a grateful smile, touched by his sincerity. "Thank you, Christian. I appreciate your support. It means a lot to me."

As I gather my belongings and prepare to step out of the car, he adds, "Take care, and if you ever want to talk about anything, I'm here."

With those words hanging in the air, I nod, appreciating the unexpected comfort in knowing that someone is there, even in the midst of the storm that echoes within the recesses of our shared vulnerabilities.

I step out of the car, the hospital looming before me, a realm of responsibilities and duties. As I glance back, Christian offers a reassuring nod before the car glides away, leaving me with a renewed sense of strength to face the challenges that lie ahead.

As I make my way through the hospital corridors, the air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and the low hum of medical equipment. The rhythmic sounds of footsteps echo against the sterile walls, a reminder of the perpetual motion within these halls of healing.

My shift progresses with its usual mix of routine tasks and unexpected challenges, each moment demanding my attention and expertise. The hospital, with its myriad emotions and stories, becomes a canvas on which the dramas of life unfold.

As I check on patients and tend to their needs, my mind occasionally drifts back to the encounter with Christian earlier. The vulnerability shared in the car lingers, a fragile thread connecting us amid the demands of our respective worlds.

However, as the day unfolds, the peace I had found in that shared connection is disrupted by an unexpected presence – James. My heart skips a beat as I spot him in the hallway, his presence a stark reminder of an unwelcome chapter from the past.