based off the song The 30th by Billie Eilish

The hospital never really sleeps. It just breathes differently at night quieter, heavier, like it’s trying not to wake someone who’s already hurting.

I know the exact number of steps from the elevator to Trauma Two. I counted them once when my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I don’t count anymore, but my body still remembers.

Tonight, the lights feel too bright.

The smell of antiseptic is sharp, familiar, grounding. I focus on it because if I don’t, my mind will replay the image I’m trying not to see—you, earlier this evening, smiling in the kitchen, asking if I wanted pasta or rice. I said pasta. You laughed and said I always say pasta.

That was six hours ago.

“Dr. Murphy.” I turn. My name lands wrong in my ears—too formal for how personal this feels. The nurse’s expression is careful, practiced. That makes my chest tighten.

You are behind the doors now. A patient. Not my husband. Not the man who lines up the mugs by color in the morning because he knows I like it. Not the man who presses his thumb into my palm when I’m overwhelmed and says, I’m here. Count with me.

Just a chart. A wristband. A bed.

I don’t like that.

I scrub in even though my hands are already clean. I scrub because it gives me something to do. Something measurable. Something I can control. The water is warm. My fingers are steady. That’s good. Surgeons need steady hands.

But my thoughts are not steady. Accidents are unpredictable. That is a fact. I know the statistics. I know the survival rates. I know exactly what injuries like yours usually mean. Usually. The doors swing open and there you are. Too still. Machines hum around you, doing things your body should be doing on its own. Your face is pale, marked with small cuts that I want to trace with my fingers even though I know I can’t. I stand at the foot of the bed instead, because that’s where doctors stand. But I am not just a doctor.

You were supposed to come home tonight. We were supposed to eat pasta. We were supposed to argue about what to watch and then fall asleep halfway through it anyway. My chest hurts. I catalog the sensation automatically. Tightness. Shallow breathing. Elevated heart rate. Anxiety response. I let it happen. I step closer. My voice, when I speak, is quiet and very controlled. “I’m here,” I say, even though you can’t answer. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.” I don’t know if that’s true yet, but I need it to be. People say there are moments that divide your life into before and after. I think they’re right. I think this is one of mine. The kind that happens on an ordinary day and leaves nothing ordinary behind. I look at the monitors. I look at you. I will fix this if I can. And if I can’t— I don’t finish that thought. I stay. I watch. I wait. Because loving you means standing here, in the worst moment, and choosing to believe that tomorrow still exists.