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Bare bones. That may be the best way to describe the operating room belonging to Michael of Lumynex. Plain. Boring. Bland. Devoid of any flavor, with the only remarkable trait of the room being its bright green walls, if that counts in even the slightest. And one could argue that this room greatly reflects the personality of the one who designed it, the one who holds power over the room and its appearance, the very person who, instead of keeping a coffee machine in her room to reuse whenever needed, creates them as she wishes before immediately discarding them after use.
That’s the exact kind of person Michael is— someone who, regardless of what, sees everything and everyone as temporary. Nothing lasts forever, and nothing is worth keeping for personal reasons. Personal reasons and motivations, silliness and whimsicality, flair and personality, it’s all but a waste of time. Such things lead to nothing but failure, that feeling of dread, the very things contributing to her idea that everyone she had once worked for was for naught because no matter how hard she had tried to work, filling logs day after day and observing like a hawk, keeping tabs on everything and being as detailed and thorough as she possibly could, it ended up not meaning a thing in the end as her patient had sat in that chair, eyes blank, lacking any form of expression or hell, even soul. The sight of them sitting in that chair limp, slouched backwards, with eyes so lazy it seemed as if there wasn’t a single force within their body that would allow for them to even shift slightly to the side, it haunts her day after day, a constant reminder of why she does what she does and why she shouldn’t give a single damn about what anyone else has to say.
Especially not a certain someone knocking on her patient room. A certain someone who knocks with a very distinct pattern, the exact same pattern every single time, to the point where Michael’s certain it’s been engraved into her head and finds herself tapping it on her desk (much to her annoyance). Three knocks of the same rhythm, all heavy, loud, cheery, and one much softer once that follows shortly before a final one, much louder than the rest.
…
Michael would rather perish than interact with them right now. She seriously would rather be stuck falling down the C building in a loop, again and again and again for all of eternity, feeling nothing but the air pressing against her blades. She sighs, straining her eyes as she continues her task of writing patient log #14. To strengthen one sense is to weaken the others, much akin to taking food from an entire flock of birds and feeding it all to one singular bird in that flock. That one bird is the only focus, the only one worth caring about at the moment, and therefore, the only one she should focus on. Logical, no? She’d like to think so.
However, this doesn’t always quite work the way she would like it to, Right now, for instance, due to the persistence of the one at the door. Another rhythmic knock echoes through the room, breaking Michael out of the trance she had attempted to put herself in. But whatever. It’s fine. It’s whatever. She’ll just… tell them to go away. Yes. That. And then slam the door in her face if she insists. Perfect plan, gold stars all around, Michael doesn’t see a singular flaw in her brilliant idea.
After a quick breath, inhaling a whiff of air before promptly releasing it, she opens the door, the annoyed expression she knows very well Sean is used to seeing all over her face. Speaking of, she knew it was Sean— just knew it. Eccentric, energetic, always full of smiles and grins and laughter, never takes anything seriously… God, who else would bother coming to Michael’s patient room for anything?
“Can you—”
“Mikeyy, long time no see!” interrupts Sean, that irritating, borderline infuriating smile all over her face as she glances between the corridor beside her and Michael’s own face. Michael can feel her eye twitching and the slight groan escaping her.
“And if only that time had been longer. What do you want? If it’s not important, I need you to leave, I’m not exactly in the mood for company.”
“Can I hide out here for a second?”
Her request is very quick, a slightly apologetic expression on her face displayed by the slight grimace and downturned eyes. Not that that matters to Michael. No, no, no, it doesn’t, it shouldn’t, anything but, no, she can’t be dealing with such useless observations, this is none of her responsibility. No effort should be put towards anything other than her work.
“And what makes you think that I—”
“ ‘Noah’ won’t quit pestering me about you. Would you rather he be at your door?”
…
Michael steps to the side, eyes drifting to the wall as she gestures for Sean to come in. A slightly muffled laugh sounds from her as she enters, a playful grin replacing the somewhat perplexed expression from before.
“If this is just an excuse to enter my patient room, I’m going to strangle you,” states Michael calmly, that hint of bitterness lacing their words as she shuts the door and goes back to her computer to work. “I was in the middle of something very important.”
“Would I really lie about—”
“Yes.”
In the corner of Michael’s eye, Sean has a slightly offended expression on her face, a scoff sounding from her.
“So that’s how you see me, alright, I understand. I suppose I could just go out there and direct Noah to—”
“You wouldn’t— Fine, okay, whatever, you’re amazing, spectacular, so truthful, always the most honest person in the room, simply the most trustworthy operator I know, that’s you, uh-huh, for sure.”
That seems to please her, another laugh echoing through the room. Oddly enough, that’s the last sound that comes from her for a good moment, Michael observes. So quiet and undistracting, in fact, she manages to finish her log in that rare silence, the clicking of the keys coming to an abrupt stop as she hits the period key for the final time. That last click seems to linger in the air for a moment, the silence of the room giving it that effect.
…
That’s odd.
Peculiar.
Not that it’s any of Michael’s concern, of course, no, no way. Why should this matter to him? There’s no reason. Nope. None at all.
She doesn’t even care.
Absolutely not.
No way.
Not even a little.
…
Her head turns slightly just to glance over at Sean, who’s on the other side of the room, hand on the little desk holding nothing but a book (one that will likely be discarded shortly after it’s finished) and a vase of flowers. As if sensing a pair of eyes on her, Sean turns towards Michael and his desk, that stupid smile still scribbled all over her face, almost in dandelion yellow crayon. Almost too bright.
“I didn’t know you liked primroses.”
“...You know what species they are?” questions Michael slowly, tone much softer, lacking the tough, biting one from just a moment ago. Sean seems to take notice of this, his expression faltering for a second before answering, smiling once more (Much to Michael’s own dismay. Seriously , why did she feel the need to say that??? Is she, perhaps, allergic to thinking before speaking??? And must that fatal flaw come out right this very moment???)
“Of course! They’re pretty recognizable. The white ones have always been my favorite too, though I have to say, the pink ones have been growing a lot on me recently,” they ramble, hands moving animatedly as they do so. Michael’s always hated that about them too. How… captivating they were, for a lack of a better term. It’s always been annoying. Irritating. Something he could never understand, why exactly they could so easily grab the attention of a crowd, how exactly they so easily adapted to any environment, none of it, not a single part. To him, Sean is nothing but some… enigma. Some enigma whom he doesn’t believe he’ll ever manage to grasp, some enigma who is so unattainable it begs the question of whether working his ass off is even worth it if they can do everything so naturally.
“...But really, you’re the last person I thought would have flowers in their operating room. They’re real too, huh?”
Michael averts her gaze, eyes landing on the flowers, purposefully avoiding the hourglass in front of her. She just… needs to tolerate her for a bit longer. Just a little. It’s nothing in the grand scheme of things, and this will continue to mean nothing once it’s over. As usual.
“Yes.”
“So you water them and everything as well?” A wave of playful curiosity seems to seep out of the tone of his voice, as if genuinely interested in the flowers, their roots, their purpose.
…
Meaningless things. As usual, when it comes to Sean. Convoluted, contradictory, ridiculous.
“How do you think they’re alive?” Her eyes roll as her words, brimming with sarcasm, come out of her mouth. “I thought you of all people would find caring for flowers a task so boring it would only be something I would do.”
“What?? What gave you that impression?” She turns back towards the pinwheel, once again looking offended at the image Michael seems to have of her. “I think it’s quite lovely, personally. Endearing, in a way, especially from some like you. You’re kinda…”
He can feel his eyebrow raising in confusion, arms crossed.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing bad or anything!” Their arms go up as if to scream ‘I’m innocent!!’ “Just… you’re a little bit of a prick with a stick up his ass. The last person I’d ever expect to care enough about watering flowers in a vase.”
“Literally ALL of that was negative.”
“I think I prefer the terms ‘true’ or ‘correct,’ personally, and are you just going to assume the connotation of my words? For all you know, I meant that in a one hundred percent affectionate way, just endearing terms I like to use for my dearest friend Mi—”
“ ‘Dearest friend’ my ass .”
There’s a brief pause where Sean doesn’t respond. She’s staring, her typically bright eyes slightly duller and smile significantly faded. Michael’s own eyes widen slightly in response— they… can’t say that they expected that. It feels incredibly out of character for Sean of all people, does it not? Just… illogical.
“Are you not my dear friend?”
…
“What?”
Whatever is she even supposed to say to that? Whatever can she say to that? Even if she weren’t ‘Michael’ what would literally anyone say to that?
Emotions are a difficult thing. A complicated thing. Something no one, whether in the past, present, or future, will ever understand because of the amount of layers it holds and the amount of nuance it would take to peel each layer off, one by one.
“I’ve always liked seeing us as friends.”
Many may be gifted with the power to vaguely comprehend these feelings, the slightly impressive ability to read how a person feels through sight and inferences, the maybe a little more astonishing aptness to know how to respond to these feelings.
“Maybe I could just be delusional, as insane as you envision me, but I really do like you.”
Michael has never been one of those gifted people, no, she’s never known what it was like to ‘understand,’ ‘feel for,’ ‘ get ’ a person. Facial expressions can hardly tell her a thing, hand gestures hardly give off anything other than ‘flashy,’ and when it comes to responding to those gestures, being expected to give some sort of emotional response back, to feel those emotions just as the person of whom she is speaking to does…
“But it almost feels like you don’t feel similarly in the slightest.”
She doesn’t know what she’s expected to say.
“Really Michael, do you see me as a friend? Like even at all?”
What is she supposed to say here?
“I…”
…
Sean seems to realize what she’d just said, shaking her head and holding a hand up in front of her in embarrassment.
“Nevermind— you don’t need to answer that— I mean, I just like hanging out with you, so that’s enough for—”
“I wouldn’t mind if you stuck around.”
Emotions are a difficult thing. A complicated thing.
“Regardless of how irritating you are, I don’t…”
Something no one, whether in the past, present, or future will ever understand.
“It would get quiet without your nonsensicality.”
Awkward silence hangs in the air, the words that had spilled out of the pinwheel flooding the room, suffocating her as she forces her gaze to meet that of the hourglass. She inhales, the room so devoid of sound it’s audible, before exhaling, her posture, her limbs, her brain, even, all of it stiffening with tension. It’s only broken by a slight laugh, an awkward one, a quiet one, one much akin to a murmur, a mutter, a mumble.
“I thought you hated nonsensicality.”
For just a moment, Michael can feel a smile crack on her face, overtaking what may as well have been the permanent frown engraved onto her.
“...I can have exceptions once in a millennia.”
“That exception being me?”
…
She doesn’t respond to that one, only rolling her eyes, clearing her throat, and wiping that stupid smile she claims to see as pointless off of her face. After another laugh, Sean seems to go back to eyeing the primroses in their vase.
“On second thought, I think these suit you.”
“In what way, exactly?”
“White primroses. They stand for hope, renewal, a new day, optimism.”
“I know. In what way does that suit me?”
Sean does nothing but smile at her for a moment, grin flashing like a thousand suns.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Before Michael can get another word out, she turns to the door, opening it before looking back at the pinwheel.
“They’re likely gone by now— I’ll see ya ‘round, Mikey!”
And with that she’s gone, leaving the Pinwheel, her flowers, and her bare-bones room all alone once more, just how it had been only a bit ago. Despite how normal this is for Michael, how typical this is, how often she spends her time in this room without any form of company…
She can’t help but feel a small part of it is missing now that a certain hourglass and her bright expression scribbled dandelion yellow have left.
…
Ridiculous. This feeling. Utterly risible.
It’s just temporary. That’s it. It’ll go away in a few hours. In the end it won’t make a single difference.
…
They turn to their laptop and make a quick addition to their log. Just one small, insignificant addition that she’s fairly certain she’ll soon forget.
[Sean came by today.]
She supposes it wouldn’t hurt to let the hourglass linger in her mind for a little longer.
Fin.