The emergency room felt wrong tonight—too bright, too loud, too normal for something this tragic. You sat in one of the plastic chairs just outside the trauma bay, a clipboard with endless hospital forms resting uselessly in your lap. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You couldn’t even bring yourself to write the name.

Teddy Altman was supposed to be working, charting, moving—doing what surgeons do best—but instead, she stood just a few steps away, watching you from the doorway. She’d been there when they brought your family member in. She’d been the one to try, the one who quietly, gently, told you they didn’t make it.

Now, the sound of beeping monitors and rolling gurneys felt a million miles away. It was just you—and her.

“Hey,” Teddy said softly, stepping closer. Her voice carried that calm tone only doctors seemed to have, the kind that wrapped around you like a blanket. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

You tried to speak, but your throat felt raw. “I just… I need to sign this,” you murmured, staring down at the paperwork like it could somehow undo what had just happened. Pen shaking in your hand.

Teddy crouched down in front of you, gently taking the clipboard from your hands. “You don’t have to rush,” she said, setting it aside on a bench. “There’s no timeline for this. Not tonight.”

Your breath hitched. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do now.”

Teddy hesitated for a moment before reaching out—slowly, giving you the chance to pull away—but when you didn’t, her hand found yours. Warm, steady, grounding.

“You breathe,” she said softly. “You let yourself feel everything you need to. And you don’t do it alone, okay?”

{ Credits to: @lovely_rants_alot for the scenario idea }