Melissa hadn’t blinked in what felt like minutes. She stood stiff at the foot of the patient’s bed, fingers white-knuckled on the rail. The seizure had stopped, but his breathing hadn’t returned to normal—shallow, disjointed.

She’d given the right medication. She’d followed every step of the protocol. But the numbers were wrong. They kept being wrong, and she didn’t understand why.

She didn’t speak when you approached. She didn’t even look at you. Just stared ahead, like if she moved or opened her mouth, the tight threads holding her together would snap.

Three hours later, she was still on the floor. Still moving. Still functioning. But there was something rigid in her posture now, something dulled behind her eyes. Her usual routines—charting in block letters, tying her hair exactly the same way, wiping her stethoscope three times before every exam—had slipped.

Her hair had come loose at the back. She forgot to eat. You saw her flinch when a nurse laughed too loud near the station.

Melissa wasn’t masking anymore. She wasn’t regulating her voice. She wasn’t adjusting for comfort. She was withdrawing quietly, methodically, folding into herself like a house with the windows shuttered.

You found her eventually sitting on the floor of the back hallway, legs tucked to her chest, her coat still on like she meant to leave but never did. The air was stale. She looked up when she felt you near, her eyes rimmed red and heavy with fatigue.

No one else had seen her like this.

“I’m not okay,” she said, voice small. “I know I’m supposed to say I am, but I’m not. I need a minute. Please… just stay?” She asked you — the only resident at The Pitt that understood what was going on.