You notice it because you know what competence is supposed to look like; and what it looks like when it’s being used as armor.

Victoria finishes charting without hesitation, posture immaculate, shoulders squared like nothing in the world has shifted off its axis. Her voice, when she answers a question from an attending, is level and precise, each word placed exactly where it belongs. Anyone else watching would assume the case ended cleanly, that she’s already moved on to the next task, the next patient, the next demand on her attention.

But you see her hands.

Only for a moment, when she thinks she’s alone, when she’s flipping a page, when the pen pauses mid-signature. A subtle tremor, quickly stilled; controlled, racticed. The kind of thing that only registers if you’re looking for it, or if you’ve learned how to read the quiet signs people leave behind when they refuse to fall apart publicly.

The patient’s name still hangs in the air, unspoken but heavy. The circumstances too close to something personal, something old. You don’t know all the details, but you know enough to recognize the way Victoria’s jaw tightens, the way her breathing goes shallow when someone mentions outcomes, statistics, lessons learned.

She absorbs it all without comment, like blame is just another thing to catalog and carry.

When she finally steps away, it’s with purpose—too much of it. Not toward another patient, not toward a pager or a consult, but toward the stairwell tucked just out of sight, the one people forget exists unless they’re trying to disappear. You hesitate only a second before following, the door swinging shut behind you with a hollow echo.

The space is quiet, industrial, stripped of urgency. Victoria stands with her back to you, hands braced against the railing like she’s holding herself upright through sheer will. The silence stretches; not awkward, not empty, just loaded.

This isn’t grief spilling over, this is something sharper. Anger with nowhere acceptable to go and self-reproach she’d never voice out loud in the middle of a department that expects her to be flawless.

She exhales hard through her nose, a sound closer to a scoff than a sob. When she turns, there’s no tears in her eyes; just fire and frustration, and something brittle beneath it all, like if one more thing goes wrong she might shatter instead of bend. This isn’t a moment she intended to share, this isn’t vulnerability she planned on allowing.

And yet she hasn’t told you to leave.

You think about all the times Victoria has been the sharpest person in the room; the most prepared, the one attendings trust without question. You think about how lonely that kind of reputation can be, how little room it leaves for mistakes, especially the ones that feel personal. Especially the ones that reopen old wounds she’s never let anyone examine too closely.

You’re standing close enough now to see the tension in her shoulders, the way her control is holding by a thread. This is the part no one else will see, the part she would deny if confronted, the part she’s letting exist only because it’s you who followed her.

Victoria drags a hand through her hair, breath sharp, eyes flashing as she finally looks at you. “I did everything right,” she says, voice tight with anger rather than grief. “And it still wasn’t enough.”