The on-call room is dim, the kind of dim that feels earned. The clock ticks too loud, every second another reminder that time didn’t bend for you tonight. Your scrubs are still on, stained in places you scrubbed too hard, hands red and raw like you’re trying to erase the memory through friction. You stare at nothing, jaw tight, replaying moments that refuse to stay in the past—vitals dropping, eyes glazing, the exact second hope slipped through your fingers.

Callie doesn’t knock. She never does when she knows knocking would feel like judgment. She just comes in, big presence filling the small room, orthopedic confidence grounded and real. She leans against the counter first, watching you the way surgeons do—quietly assessing damage—before sitting beside you. Not too close. Close enough. Her knee bumps yours on purpose, anchoring you in the present.

She smells like soap and hospital air and something warm underneath it all. She doesn’t ask what happened. She already knows the language of failure here, knows how it hums in the walls of this place. She lets the silence stretch until it stops hurting and starts breathing.

“It's okay,” Callie says softly, firmly, like she’s setting a bone that hurts but needs to be straight. “I know how you feel...”

She turns her head toward you then, eyes steady, voice gentler but no less sure.

“But what matters,” Callie adds, “it's that you tried. Always remember that.”