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And of course, just when Mel had something good, something great even, fate pried it from her hands and left her with nothing.
Her and Dr. Langdon had clicked. The first day he was back at PTMC, Mel just looked at him, a little sadness for him hanging in her eyes, but a lot more hope overpowering that. He nodded slightly, like he implicitly understood how she felt, and they fell into step with one another, perusing the halls for cases they were fit for.
From that day on, he stayed in her space. He followed her from case to case, from patient to patient, regardless of urgency or the need for two doctors in one crammed exam room. He was her tall shadow, the personification of a warm aura around her that provided her both comfort and confidence when it came to her performance in the field.
Their minds seemed to be interlinked. Langdon always knew her next move, and how to counter it—she could reach out her hand for something otherwise unguaranteed and his hand would fill the space, and give her exactly what she needed, not a second later. The way they clicked was magnetic.
At moments Mel wondered if there was something more. In more intimate cases Langdon’s eyes would always fall on her, never budging until the last possible second. His loaded stares had her feeling like she would simply combust on the spot.
It was sheer insanity, trying to emotionally decipher what his gaze meant. And she wondered, sometimes, if that gaze meant something real, something tangible, something possible romant—
Yet, nothing good could stay for long. Not for Mel.
It had been a few months working together when Abbot gave Mel the notice that she’d be put on more night shifts. It was something that she had suspected—they had gradually phased her into the regimen with occasional shifts at night—but it hurt nonetheless, because she lost the family that she had developed and grown accustomed to during the day shift. All the people she had gotten used to would be stripped from her and she would be laid bare in what was technically the same environment, but would never quite feel like it with different people there. An uncanny emergency department, of sorts.
Worst of all, perhaps, was losing Langdon. Because of his family and the procedural pillars placed after his return to PTMC, he was rarely ever scheduled for night shifts.
Robby wanted to keep a keen eye on Langdon, and Mel suspected that Abbot was either intrigued by her working at the VA or had a personal vendetta against her for it. He was a man that she couldn’t decipher precisely, and was fatiguing immensely over even trying.
So she never really saw Langdon, give or take the few times they passed each other in the hall, mumbling quick hellos as they relieved one another of their shifts. Mel wondered, a few times, in the deepest part of her core, if this was some moral punishment by a deistic high power for her ever even suggesting the idea that she and Langdon could be something.
She didn’t have time to contemplate that, however, because a slip of paper fell out of her locker when she opened it, getting ready to leave work. She picked up the note, and it read:
Dear Mel,
I miss you.
The scrawl could have been anyone’s—she couldn’t meticulously decipher it, but she knew. She knew who the note came from, nevermind the fact that it didn’t have a signature. With her own paper pad and pen, she wrote to him:
Dear Langdon,
I miss you too.
Slotting the note into the slats of his locker, that was the start of it.
—
Mel went about her day, not paying the note, or her note back to him, any mind—if she had she would have probably ruminated about its meaning and what he meant by ‘I miss you’ and—
“Dr. King,” Mohan beckoned her over. “I need help on this case.”
And just like that, her mind was off of it, tuning into Samira’s voice and the information she was spewing out as she approached the exam room.
Ultimately, Mel thought, it was a terribly difficult case. Hours later, she sat in the stairwell, attempting to still her hands, which were trembling with a ferocity only seen after something really terrible. She remembers the hand tremors months after her mom’s funeral.
When she walked into the exam room, a young girl sat on the bed, her arms covered in lacerations and rashes running across her skin. She was crying, softly, as to not let her salty tears infuse into the wounds on her face.
Apparently, as the girl finally told Mel after idle conversation and gentle prodding, her mom and her got into a brutal car accident off the highway—but when she got to the hospital, her mom was nowhere to be seen.
A grim conversation with Perlah and a call for Kiara later, Mel found herself curled up in the stairwell, staring at her phone watching a lava lamp light up in front of her face. Tears crawled down her face—she wasn’t able to locate the mom, and no reports to other hospitals had been made identifying her. She just sat there, thinking, how could anyone want to do this? She thought that a lot, working at PTMC.
When she finally got up, she wiped the tears from her face, but it was no use—she was still all red and splotchy. But she didn’t care at this point; she just wanted to go through the motions of her shift and go home.
The next day, opening her locker, a larger piece of paper, folded thrice, was carefully placed at the bottom of her cubby with a purple stress ball.
Dearest Mel,
I still miss you, but you know that. You must have known that for a while.
I heard about the case yesterday. Santos saw you walking out of the stairwell crying. I don’t know exactly why she went to me, but I appreciated the sentiment. She explained what happened to me.
I guess I don’t know what it’s like for you, in full earnestness, but I want to. And I suppose I can surmise from what I do know about you; that the case might’ve resonated a little too much with you, more than you’ve ever wanted it to.
I know you didn’t find the mom. And I know you begin to doubt yourself in times like these. Yet, I must let you know how absolutely absurd it is to do so.
I must let you know how ardently I admire you as a doctor. As a human being, even. It must have taken you a lot of hurt to be this kind. To be this generous.
The world needs doctors like you. We need them tenfold. I need you, here at the pitt.
Yours,
Frank
—
She sent her response a while later:
Dear Frank,
If you should let me call you that. I know you call me Mel, but I never hear anyone call you Frank. Everyone simply calls you Langdon. Yet I’ve grown quite fond of the name, writing it down on paper.
Thank you for your letter—I cannot emphasize enough how much it meant to me. When I have doubts about this job, you are always there, encouraging and affirming me. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about our first day together often, our conversation in the break room. The past months, it has served as a pillar of light at the end of the tunnel. I think, if I can keep on trekking through, still unchanged and kind as ever, I might see a way to live with the hurt of it all.
I think about more than just our first day. I think about you a lot. I miss you greatly. I miss our conversations and how easily we worked together. I miss the many times you’d ask me if I was okay—I don’t get those compulsory checkups on the night shift.
It isn’t the first time I’ve missed you. It might be silly to say, but I missed you while you were away too. This might come off as bizarre—I had only known you for fifteen hours, but your presence that first day was impactful. I haven’t had the pleasure to say that often. People ignore me. It’s something I’ve gotten used to. And so, your absence was unduly noted, and felt. I felt your absence like a burning hole in my chest every day.
I feel it too, now, as you’re away.
Sincerely,
Mel
—
My dearest Mel,
I hope you’re doing well since I last wrote to you. October has passed us by, it seems. Yet, that conversation we had on our first day hasn’t. I stand by every word I said.
I thought about you—quite a few times—in rehab. I mean that in the best way possible. You were something to look forward to, something outside the notion of procedural compliance and dejected cynicism. I would just wonder, at this perfectly gentle, sensitive, and kind person, barreling into my life at entirely the wrong moment.
And, perhaps, if I could go back, I wouldn’t change a thing. Because I got to see you then, and I manage to still catch glimpses of you in the halls when we change shifts. And now, I cherish each word with blotted ink I send to you.
I had this patient you would have loved. She and her sister were attached at the hip, chattering and giggling through the whole exam, wide smiles plastered across their faces. I couldn’t help but be reminded of you.
It doesn’t take a lot for me to be reminded of you, Mel. I think about you all the time—it is a fact I cannot deny. Whenever my mind wanders, it falls onto a hazy mental picture of your face. I would apologize, perhaps, but I’m rather shameless now. It’s been a while without you.
Yours,
Frank
—
My dearest Mel,
I understand why you haven’t written back; I haven’t expected you to. That double must have been the shift from hell. I know you tout your good metabolism and little need for sleep, but doubles are fun for nobody. I should not ask you to write to me after—it would simply be too much.
Yet, I am glad that you worked a double, because that meant I got to see you today. Pardon my selfishness, but I do savor the small amount of time we have at work together. And I must address something on that topic—well perhaps not directly on the topic, but I must address something that happened today.
I let our hands brush when I passed you. I know you saw it, I know you felt it. And I’m sorry, because I know how you fare with physical touch. I should’ve asked first. And in the future, I will ask. That is, if you ever work a double again. Should I ever have a conversation with Abbot, you would be back on the day shift tomorrow. But we can’t always get what we want.
And another thing I know you saw: my hand slightly pulse after I brushed yours. I do know you saw that—your eyes fixated on it and your mouth pursed like it sometimes does when you’re really focusing (it is adorable, by the way, sorry if that is off topic). I don’t know what else to say other than I was truly excited to see you. It seems to have manifested into a physical response.
I hope you sleep well, and I hope you sleep long.
Yours,
Frank
—
Frank,
You are correct—I was incredibly fatigued when I finally got off my double. I slept well, maybe in part due to your well wishes. They were incredibly appreciated.
As for your apology, it was not warranted. I mean it sincerely when I write that I do not mind your touch. There is no need to ask—just do. That is all I have to say in regards to that. I do not wish to ruminate any further, and neither should you.
Anyways, when I woke up, I was still tired, nevermind sleeping for fifteen hours. So, I took a leap of faith and visited my nearest convenience store for a pick-me-up. I grabbed a six-pack of Red Bull. Maybe I was drawn to it because I always see you with a can. Perhaps I can’t see the can’s blue and silver packaging without thinking of you.
Nevertheless, I tried it. And I must say, it is the most viscerally sweet thing I have ever put in my mouth! The aftertaste was also not pleasing. I apologize, I know you drink them all the time, but they’re really not for me. All this to say I have five cans left in my fridge that you are free to steal from me when you get the chance.
If you ever have the time to stop by, you’d be doing me a great favor.
Sincerely,
Mel
—
My dearest Mel,
When we first crossed paths, I didn’t believe it was a fairytale, a fable told in oratory cycles of life. No, your coming was a plot twist—unexpected, but exactly what I needed, inevitably.
You didn’t fit into my story immediately, but you were a challenge I had to figure out. I had to figure out how you were so gentle, so that I could emulate that within myself. I had to figure out how to fit you into my life.
I could just sense myself softening around you—I didn’t know how, or why it was happening, but I let it. I let myself melt around you and seep into the cracks. I was so incredibly fixated on the person you were, how you didn’t let the pangs and arrows of life deny you the right to be happy. That is so incredible, Mel.
I am still so fascinated by you, Mel. It’s like I’m stuck on a puzzle, one I'm thoroughly enjoying.
Yours,
Frank
—
Frank,
I am just as fascinated by you, you must know. This might sound corny, and maybe you’ll laugh at me a little when you read this, but you have become the human embodiment of a safe space for me. You have become my safe space, indelibly.
I don’t have to mask as much around you—you take me for what I am. With you, I can simply take a step back and relax. I can let myself be taken care of. I can put my anxiety to rest while visual projections of your face swirl in my mind.
Speaking of your face: my eyes are drawn to it, like magnets. In a crowd, a blur at work with hundreds of people bustling around the hallways, your face is the only one I see.
Thank you for that.
Sincerely,
Mel
—
Frank,
Being half-asleep on my couch is a very good look on you.
Sincerely,
Mel
—
My dearest, Mel,
We haven’t written to one another in a while. Perhaps we haven’t needed to, given you’re back on the day shift. But I miss the routine. I found solace in sitting down and writing, just thinking of you.
As for being switched back onto the day shift, you have my pleading with Robby to thank for that. A couple other people put in a good word, too. Admiring you is a common characteristic shared by many doctors here. But I will say, I do believe I’m the best at it.
But I wrote to you because I had a thought about something you said the other day. And I must write it down, so you can hold it in your hands and know it's true.
I’d come for you. No matter what, whenever you need me, I will be there.
Yours,
Frank
—
My dearest, Mel,
Tomorrow is not promised, so I must tell you now and you must hear me. I am unequivocally and unrelentingly in love with you.