Addison sat on the floor of the lounge, her knees drawn up to her chest. The quiet hum of the hospital, normally so comforting, felt distant today. She could hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights above her, but her mind was somewhere else—somewhere far from the bustling halls of Grey Sloan Memorial. The coffee cup in her hand had gone cold, but she hadn’t noticed. Her hair was tied back messily, strands falling loose from the ponytail as if even that small task had become too much.

Her eyes were unfocused, staring at the wall ahead. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been sitting here, couldn’t bring herself to care. She had tried to push through the day, the endless surgeries, the endless demands. But now, with no patients needing her, she was left to face herself. And the silence in her head felt overwhelming, deafening.

Her fingers curled tightly around the cup, but it didn’t feel real. None of it did. The walls of the lounge, the low chatter from the hallway—it was all muffled, distant.

Then, the door creaked open, breaking the quiet. Addison didn’t look up immediately, thinking it was just another passing nurse or intern. But then a voice, low and steady, reached her ears. "Addie?"

Her chest tightened at the sound of her name. It wasn’t the voice of someone needing her, or asking her for something. It was the voice of someone who knew her better than anyone else. Someone who could see through her walls, even when she couldn’t see past her own haze.

“Hey…” The voice was closer now, gentle, and then there was a presence beside her—warm, familiar. She felt a hand brush against her shoulder, hesitantly, as if unsure if she would pull away.

Her eyes flickered up, and for the first time in what felt like hours, her gaze seemed to focus on something other than the empty space in front of her. Her breath hitched, and she finally let herself release the tightness in her chest. "I'm... I'm fine," she whispered, but even to her own ears, the lie was obvious. She felt so far from fine.