Chapter Text
4:30 a.m.
Fuck.
Someone please come and sedate me.
Four hours passed in the blink of an eye, and I didn’t sleep off any of the exhaustion that has been living in my body for months now, layered deep enough that rest feels like a suggestion rather than a solution. My eyes burn the moment I open them, my head heavy in that familiar, nauseating way that tells me sleep never really came, not the kind that resets you, not the kind that forgives. If I were the Frank of ten months ago, I would’ve already had a solution at hand, efficient and silent, a neat chemical answer waiting patiently for permission. Well, in my veins, technically speaking. But I’m not that man anymore, and I will never be him again. I know that with the kind of certainty that doesn’t comfort you, only corners you.
Still, it’s on days like this that I miss the old version of me. Or at least the way I functioned back then, the way my brain obeyed instead of resisting me at every turn. I know it’s wrong, ethically, physically, disturbingly wrong, and yet the thought slips in anyway, uninvited and persistent. I can’t stop wondering if my career was what it was only because of lorazepam, because of the way it smoothed the sharp edges, because of how easily it made space inside my head. I hate that thought. I hate how convincing it sounds when I’m this tired.
My body keeps betraying me in ways I can’t seem to contain. It lacks what it once had, something intangible but vital, like a stabilizing force I took for granted. I notice how slow I’ve become, how lagging, how clumsy. It shows in the way my fingers hesitate before moving, in the way my thoughts trail off mid-sentence, in the way my reflexes feel half a second behind where they should be. I don’t trust myself around patients, not fully. Not the way I used to. And the worst part is that I don’t even know how I got the green light from the head of the facility. That thought sits heavy in my chest, unanswered, uncomfortable, impossible to shake.
I check the clock again. 5:05. The red numbers glow back at me like an accusation. Did I really just lose thirty minutes to my own head.
Shaking it off feels useless, but staying here feels worse. I toss the blue sheets aside and shiver as the cold air hits my skin, immediate and unforgiving. I find my slippers, my glasses, moving on autopilot because thinking too much this early feels dangerous. The mirror catches me on my way out of the bedroom, and I slow despite myself. There’s a piece of paper taped to it, curling slightly at the edges.
The list is the same as yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.
I rip it down and toss it into the trash, a flash of irritation burning through me, then grab the new one from the desk and tape it to the wall like a ritual I don’t trust but refuse to abandon. The words pile up exactly as before. Wake up. Drink two and a half glasses of water. Floss. Shower. Eat. Take supplements. Get dressed for work.
Work.
As if it ever stopped being part of my system. My routine. My identity. And yet all it took was one misstep, ten months away, for the whole world to change shape around me. I rub my face and sigh, pressing my palms into my eyes until I see stars. At least living alone means I don’t have to worry about traffic or being late. The hospital is right next door, close enough that it feels like it never really lets me leave.
After the routine, I grab my shoes and still the jitter in my knee, forcing it to behave. The tremor is small but insistent, like my body is reminding me who’s really in control now. I pull on an old cap and step outside, breathing in the sharp, cold air of Pittsburgh, letting it sting my lungs just enough to make me feel present.
When I step into the waiting room, everything looks the same, and yet it feels wrong. Off. Too familiar and completely foreign at once. My scalp prickles with awareness before my mind can catch up. I know I’m being watched. It feels like everyone knows what I did, like they can see it on me, carved somewhere under the skin. And maybe they do. Maybe I’m imagining it. The two possibilities blur together until they’re indistinguishable.
Cold sweat runs down my spine, soaking through my shirt. My knees start bouncing again, traitorous and visible. After what feels like an eternity, Lupe calls my name.
“Frank,” she says, smiling, and it’s a real one. “Welcome back.”
She hands me a stack of paperwork, my badge, things I can barely juggle with one hand. I nod once, my throat tight. “Yeah. Thanks.” I don’t quite manage to meet her eyes.
The moment I step into the Pitt, the sensation intensifies. Blood pounds in my ears, loud enough to drown out everything else. I’m wound so tight that when a voice cuts through the noise, I almost jump.
“Langdon.”
Louie Cloverfield. Of all people. Of all days. I manage to keep it to a small twitch, plaster on a smile, take mental note of his presence like a variable I don’t have time to process. I move fast toward the lockers, needing something solid to anchor myself, but I don’t get far before I’m intercepted.
“Look who finally decided to come back,” Dana says, grinning.
Lena is beside her, arms crossed, watching me like she’s checking if I’m real. “Good to see you, Frank,” she adds.
And just like that, the Pitt closes in around me.
For a split second, completely unbidden, I expect to see someone else standing there. Gold hair. A presence that feels precise in a way I never quite understood. The thought startles me enough that I shut it down immediately, shove it somewhere deep and inconvenient. I dismiss it and move toward the lockers, telling myself it’s just nerves, just fatigue, just the past reaching for me because it knows I’m weak.
