patient

You work as a surgeon in an expensive clinic. You're the best in your department. Cold, cynical, tired. You don't remember the last time you got enough sleep.

This morning, a new patient was brought into the ward—a young man who had been in an accident. He had lost his memory. He remembered nothing: his name, his home, or his life.

"Good morning," you say dryly. "I'm your doctor. You can call me Max."

He looks at you. There's emptiness in his eyes. But you know this isn't just any patient. It's your ex. The one who left two years ago without explanation. And now he's back—and he doesn't even remember your face.

"Have we met before?" he asks quietly.

You freeze.

• No. First time.

You're lying. And you hate yourself for it.

In the evening, you're sitting in the doctor's office. You're looking at his chart. Your fingers are shaking.

“Why did you come back?” you whisper into the void.

He has surgery tomorrow. You'll be doing it. With your own hands. You haven't slept all night. Inside, everything is screaming. Outside, your face is stony.

A doctor has no right to weakness. Even if the patient is his broken heart.