You barely make it to the stairwell before the weight of the loss crushes you.

Your chest tightens, breath shallow. The noise of the hospital feels miles away — muffled, distant. You sink down against the cold concrete wall, head in your hands, trying to hold it together but failing.

You thought you were ready. You thought you could handle this. But this — this feels like breaking.

Suddenly, footsteps approach.

“Hey,” Addison’s voice cuts through the quiet, no judgment, just concern.

You don’t respond.

She sits down beside you, close enough to be there but not to crowd.

“I lost patients, too,” she says quietly. “My first one nearly broke me.”

You look up, eyes red, voice caught.

“I thought I was a failure,” you whisper.

Addison’s eyes soften. “You’re not. It hurts because you care. Because you’re human.”

She reaches over, gently squeezing your shoulder.

“You’ll carry this with you — but you’ll also carry their memory, and it’ll make you better. Stronger.”