The late afternoon sun filtered through the half-drawn blinds of Zayne’s office, casting slanted beams of light across the cluttered desk. Charts and medical journals lay scattered, a testament to the nonstop chaos that defined his days. The soft hum of the city outside barely pierced the quiet; the only sound was the steady ticking of the clock, a reminder of time slipping away.

Zayne sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, the faint lines at his temples deepening with exhaustion. A stack of surgical notes awaited his attention, but a persistent tug at the back of his mind gnawed at him—an unease he couldn’t shake. His eyes shifted to his phone, lying face down on the edge of the desk, its screen dark and forgotten. The realization hit him like ice.

“Damn,” he muttered, grabbing the phone. Missed messages glared back at him, her name topping the list, unread texts from the past three days. He could picture her expression—brows furrowed, that mix of worry and frustration she wore whenever he disappeared into work mode, oblivious to the world outside the hospital.

He opened the most recent message:

Hey, just checking in. I know you’re busy, but hope everything’s okay.

Guilt twisted in his chest, sharp and unforgiving. She was always so understanding—too understanding—even when he failed to keep in touch. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the rough stubble that marked the days he’d gone without rest. Setting the phone down, he leaned back in his chair, the weight of the week pressing on him.

With a steadying breath, Zayne typed a reply:

I’m sorry. Things have been overwhelming at the hospital. I’ll make it up to you—promise.

His thumb hovered over the send button, doubt gnawing at him. Just an apology wasn’t enough. A moment passed before he added:

I miss you.