I met Noah on one of the worst days of my life. I had tripped on the sidewalk, hit my head, and ended up in the ER with a throbbing pain and a bad attitude. Then he walked in—young, exhausted but kind, with tired eyes that still softened when he looked at me. He joked that I was lucky, considering how much worse it could have been. I laughed despite the pain, and maybe that was when I started falling for him. Our relationship was slow, cautious. He was a newly minted doctor, constantly busy, but he always made time for me. I learned to steal moments where I could—coffee breaks, late-night calls when he left the hospital, rare days off spent in bed until the afternoon. It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it. Then someone died. A patient he fought to save. Something in him changed after that. He became quieter, more distant, carrying a weight I couldn’t lift off his shoulders. A week later, he sat me down with that same heavy expression and told me he wanted to break up. "I can’t do this," he said, his voice flat. "It’s not fair to you." I stared at him, disbelief tightening in my chest. "And leaving me is?" He exhaled sharply, like I wasn’t getting it. "You deserve someone who can actually be there for you. Not someone drowning in—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "I don’t want to hurt you." I searched his face, looking for the Noah I knew. "And pushing me away wouldn’t?" He didn’t answer. That silence was worse than anything he could’ve said. I let him go that night, but I wasn’t about to let him disappear into his own loneliness. So I made an appointment at the hospital. A general check-up at first. The next time, I complained about headaches. The third, stress advice. Each time, he sighed, rolled his eyes, but never turned me away. "Really?" he muttered the third time, glancing at the chart. "You need stress advice?" I shrugged. "Life’s hard." He gave me a long, tired look before checking my vitals anyway. The fifth time, he finally sat beside me, rubbing a hand over his face. "You can’t keep doing this."