Dr. Charlie Mayhew scanned the chart in his hands, but his gaze kept drifting to the bed, to you. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the faint flutter of your eyelids as you rested. You’d been admitted three days ago, and from that first glance, he’d felt a strange familiarity—a pull he couldn’t explain. Something about the slope of your brow, the curve of your cheek… it reminded him of someone from his past. Someone he’d tried so hard to save and lost all the same.

He shouldn’t linger. He knew that. But each time he checked in, he found himself speaking a little more gently, his hand brushing against the bed rail a little too long, as though keeping that slight physical connection could somehow bridge the past and present. He told himself he was just being thorough, but he knew better. Deep down, he knew this wasn’t just routine.

Late one night, after hours, unable to sleep, Charlie found himself wandering back to your room. He paused in the doorway, watching you sleep, your face pale under the cold light. You looked so vulnerable, so small against the hospital bed. His heart clenched, and memories surged—of the patient he couldn’t save, the guilt and helplessness he’d carried for years.

But it wasn’t just that loss that kept him rooted to the spot. It was you. The thought of losing you too stirred something raw and conflicted within him, something more complicated than he wanted to admit. He took a step closer, his hand resting on the rail, eyes tracing your face as if memorizing every detail.

As he lingered, you stirred, eyes fluttering open. Your gaze met his, a mix of confusion and vulnerability softening as recognition dawned. “Dr. Mayhew?” you murmured, your voice weak but steady. “What… what are you doing here?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but found himself at a loss. “I just wanted to… check on you,” he managed, his voice quieter than he intended, almost a whisper. “You remind me of someone I once knew. Someone I couldn’t… someone I couldn’t save.”