I entered the hospital alone, wearing a dress that looked like something out of a bizarre horror movie.
Everyone who saw me thought I was strange, or at least that's what I thought.
I passed some colleagues who didn't recognize me. Was I really that strange?
Then I went into the changing room, where I found the head nurse. She looked me over, then smiled and said, "You're dating him?"
I answered yes, opening a part of my heart to her, but I still felt like I was dreaming.
Then I quickly changed and started working.
It was a long, bloody day. I saw Michael once to eat with him, and the food was good, I think.
The day ended, and I changed back into the dress. I tried calling Michael, but he was busy, so I went to the doctors' area. There was only a first-year resident there, so I asked him about Michael. He said he was watching a surgery and would be finished for a long time.
So I texted Michael to call me after the surgery and went to a shop near my house to buy some drinks. I'm still waiting for his call.
I went home, and my thoughts began to race. Since I'm writing now, it's okay to write about what was on my mind.
In the early hours, everything seemed to float on a calm surface of tranquility. Beautiful memories crept in one after another, as if compensating me for all the heavy days that preceded them. I smiled without realizing it, recalling the smallest details: the tone of his voice, that look I didn't understand then, but now I cling to it as if it were proof of something… of anything.
But this tranquility didn't last long. It began to crack slowly. A small thought crept in: Why hadn't he called? Then it grew, spread, multiplied, until it became an unstoppable storm. Was he still not over? Or was he over and no longer wanted me? Had something happened to him? An accident? An emergency? Or did he simply… regret it? Did he even see my message? Did he ignore it? Did he read it and not know what to say? Or did he know… and choose silence?
The questions multiplied terrifyingly; every possible answer spawned a dozen more doubts, and there was no certainty I could cling to.
I began to feel the room shrinking, time itself growing heavier, each minute feeling like an hour, each second bringing a new possibility worse than the last. Then, as if my mind wasn't satisfied, it dragged me back to a deeper, more ancient point… to my solitude.
That solitude I had momentarily thought had receded, but in reality, it was merely lurking, waiting. I remembered how it always clung to me, how it needed no reason to return, just a moment of silence long enough… and it would.
Am I the reason? Am I really that boring? Is my presence exhausting? Could he have suddenly sensed it? Had he grown tired of me before anything real had even begun between us? Or was I the only one who thought there was "something" at all? The idea that he might be attracted to me swirled within me, sometimes seeming utterly certain, as clear as day, and other times appearing absurd, a delusion I'd created to escape reality.
Amidst all this turmoil, nothing remained constant except one feeling: that I was trapped between a hope I couldn't relinquish and a fear I couldn't bear… and that waiting, this silent waiting, might be more painful than any possible answer.
I turned my phone on and off. "I won't call," I said aloud. Then I turned it on again and ordered food.
My head ached in a way I'd never experienced before, a heavy, throbbing pain, as if it were pressing down on my thoughts and scattering them in every direction. Even standing became an unbearable effort.
I tried to compose myself, to cling to any thread of consciousness, just until the doorbell rang.
I needed that sound, anything to break this oppressive silence. And when it finally rang, I felt less relief than an overwhelming urge to get up despite everything.
I moved slowly, my steps unsteady, as if the ground wouldn't hold beneath my feet. My hand reached for the handle and turned it without seeing clearly. The world before me was blurry, incomplete, and muffled. I took the order without even looking up, just wanting to finish, to go back and close the door… but before I could, the movement stopped.
Something was preventing the door from closing.
I was confused. For a moment, I thought I was imagining things, but I looked up despite my heavy eyes, despite my confusion, and I saw him. It wasn't my imagination this time… it was him. Michael. Standing in front of me, closer than I expected, more real than any illusion ever had.
I couldn't say anything, or even understand exactly what I was feeling. All that happened was that my body surrendered. I fell toward him without thinking, without resistance, as if I had finally found a place to stop. His arms were there, catching me before I hit the ground, as if this scene had played out before, as if he knew me better than I knew myself in that moment.
How many times has this happened? How many times have I found myself so vulnerable before him? I can't count… countless situations where I thought I would appear stronger, more composed, but every time… I end up here. In his arms, unable to hide anything.
And the embarrassing thing is not that I'm falling... but that a part of me, deep down, no longer even tries to stop it.