Work Text:
5:02 a.m.
I don’t even know why I’m awake. The room is still dark. My alarm won’t go off until 6:00. I have to be at the hospital by 7:00. I should be sleeping.
Instead, I grab my phone and decide to write the message I’ve been meaning to send for days, the one I haven’t had the guts to send:
___
heeeeey, have u really been that busy these past few weeks? you haven’t told me when you’re coming over, or I could go to yours…
“Mm-mm., no. That sounds kinda rude. I don’t want it to sound like I’m accusing her of anything.” [delete]
___
heeeeey, I was just thinking we’ve both been so busy these past few weeks… miss u
“Miss u”? What am I doing? [delete, delete, delete]
___
?heeeeey, we’ve both been so busy these past few weeks… do you wanna come over tonight? after the fireworks
___
I don’t reread it.
If I reread it, I’ll rewrite it.
If I rewrite it, it’ll lose the intention.
If it loses the intention, I won’t send it.
And if I don’t send it, I’ll just keep putting this off.
“this”, this what? I don’t even know.
I send it.
My thumbs are shaking a little; I don’t know if it’s from the cold or the anxiety. Probably both. My stomach twists like I just did something illegal. The message settles right under our last exchange, and seeing it there, real and irreversible, makes me suddenly hyper-aware of my own breathing.
I open the chat again and check the only important thing.
Archived.
It’s still archived.
As if that makes it less vulnerable. As if hiding the conversation will stop me from checking every ten seconds to see if she’s replied.
I back out of the chat as fast as I can before I change my mind and close the app for real
I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep anyway, so I might get up, take a shower. and make breakfast for me and huckleberry (he’s been the one cooking all week, so since I have the time, I can give him a break at least for today)... and I probably should start getting ready for another shift at the hospital.
10:00 a.m.
Too much is happening right now:
Westbridge closed for code black, all their ambulances sent to us, right on 4th of July, perfect timing.
A girl, Kylie, comes in with bruises and petechiae. I look at her and my brain pieces together the whole story in less than thirty seconds.
I know these cases way too well for my own bad luck.
Abuse.
Then her lab results come in: platelets at 9,000. Diagnosis: ITP.
Not what I thought (thank the universe)
I realize lately I’ve been jumping to conclusions way too fast, and maaaaybe I’m not always right.
And also… I’m still avoiding trauma cases like the plague.
Although I heard that Yolanda, McKay, and Mel reduced an inferior dislocation only under general anesthesia, Mel put her fingers under the humeral head and everything. Ooooh, I would have loved to be there.
Finally got a sec to catch a little break and check my phone… (first mistake)
There’s a message from Samira asking me about today’s Mel deposition, and I reply with the little I know, not thinking too much.
I close the chat.
And then I go to what I really want to check: archived messages. (second mistake)
No notifications.
Or… is there one and I’m not seeing it?
I decide to search for the conversation with Yolanda and…
___
[Archived]
Yoyo:
seen 8:30 am ✔️✔️
____
WHAT THE…
I feel my stomach drop, I actually feel it, and my eyes go back to the chat like a response will magically appear if I just look enough times.
Ok. Ok. Ok.
Maybe she opened it by accident.
Maybe she was busy.
Maybe she was in surgery.
Maybe she forgot to reply.
Maybe.
Today I already messed up once, thinking I knew exactly what I was seeing, and maybe I’m doing the same thing all over again.
12:00 p.m.
Maybe it was that “seen” that pushed me to do it.
Not to go after her directly, but to take advantage of the fact that she walked into the same room I was in, to consult on a patient who was probably going to need surgery.
I wasn’t going to ask her “why aren’t you answering me?”, I just wanted… I don’t know, to recalibrate, maybe.
And then…
“I may need a raincheck.”
___
What does that even mean? A “raincheck” isn’t a no, but isn’t a yes either.
Does she want to reschedule?
I open my mouth to ask for when?, but something in her expression: her jaw tight, avoiding my eyes from the moment she walked into the room, the tone too neutral (not indifference, something else, harder to read) stops me.
She says it almost casually (a word I’m honestly starting to get tired of lately). It always sounds casual when it really isn’t.
And Robby shows up right on time, the perfect exit.
Yolanda changes the subject and leaves.
And I’m left standing there, with no idea what just happened.
Did she get bored of me already?
I mean… I’ve always been prepared for this.
She is THE Yolanda García. Imposing. Brilliant. Impossible to read.
She can have anyone she wants, whenever she wants.
And yet, for some strange reason I still don’t fully understand, she’d spent months choosing to spend what little free time she had with me.
I always knew this could happen, that at some point she would simply get bored.
But this doesn’t feel like boredom, does it?
Boredom is careless. I would’ve noticed. This feels more deliberate; like she’s already reached a conclusion and I’m still somewhere halfway there.
Like she’s already seen where this is going… and decided to step away before it went too far.
Maybe if she’d just said no, it would’ve hurt less.
Because I do know what’s happening to me: I don’t want something casual. I never did.
But I also know that if she wanted the same thing, she wouldn’t be creating distance with stupid, ambiguous words.
Maybe this really is as casual as it’s always been, and I’m the one who started projecting permanence onto something that never had it.
Although, It’s not like I made it all up in my head by myself.
There are always small indicators.
Like leaving her toothbrush at my place.
We’d just come off a ridiculously long shift.
In the parking lot, Yolanda asked if she could stay at my place; she lived way farther away, and neither of us was in any condition to drive that long.
It wasn’t the first time she’d stayed over.
Still, oddly enough, she needed to ask out loud.
And we both already knew the answer.
When we got to my apartment, we went upstairs in silence. Yolanda went into the bathroom first. The same routine as always, the one we followed every time she “stayed over.”
I went in a few minutes later.
The first thing I noticed was the toothbrush.
Navy blue. New. Unexpectedly the same shade Whitaker had picked at the grocery store the last time we’d gone together.
And it was in my cup, next to my own black toothbrush.
I stayed still for a second longer than usual.
In the mirror, I caught a glimpse of Yolanda standing in the doorway. She saw me noticing it.
“I’m not officially leaving it here.”
It didn’t sound firm. It sounded almost like a question, and more importantly, it didn’t sound casual.
I had to use the last bit of energy I had left to keep myself from smiling.
“Sure.”
Yolanda held my gaze through the mirror.
“It’s just…” she started, then stopped.
I almost never saw her stop. Yolanda always had an answer ready for everything.
“It’s more practical this way,” she finished.
Practical.
I tilted my head slightly.
“Are you sure? You can take it with you tomorrow if you want.”
Something shifted.
She looked up too fast (if we hadn’t both been so exhausted, I would’ve told her she’d nearly thrown her neck out).
“No.”
It was almost a reflex, sharp and instinctive.
And then, in a lower voice:
“Just leave it there.”
I held her gaze for a second longer. She looked tired, maybe nervous.
And none of it felt practical. Or casual.
I saw someone making a decision to stay (at least for now).
“Okay,” I said.
Yolanda nodded and simply went back to the bedroom, finally ready to get some sleep.
That night, we went to bed without talking about it. We never did.
The next morning, the blue toothbrush was still there.
To this day, it still is.
I couldn’t remember when I’d stopped thinking of it as something temporary.
1:00 p.m.
I definitely feel rejected. But also… not exactly.
At least I’m in my element, at work, where things (most of the time) depend on me. So I do the only thing I know how to do when something feels out of control: I focus on what I can control.
Or at least I try to.
I met Dr. Al-Hashimi this morning,the new attending and Robby’s replacement.
She’s… impressive. Precise. She doesn’t waste time, doesn’t raise her voice. I think I like her. There’s something steady about her.
The problem is that now she and Robby are both up my ass because I’m behind on my charts.
Like… reaaaaaally behind.
I’m never behind on my charts.
I used the AI Al-Hashimi is implementing to speed up the workflow. It generated the note in seconds; clean, structured, efficient.
I didn’t review it. I signed it.
And it was wrong.
(Fuck IA, I guess)
It wasn’t a technical error, it was worse. It was my fault.
I knew it the moment the internist came down to complain. Before she even finished her first sentence, I knew exactly what had happened.
Al-Hashimi didn’t yell at me, she didn’t make a scene. She just looked at me like she was recalibrating something. She doesn’t know me, but I could tell she was deciding whether I was worth the effort; or like she was reassessing my competence.
And that was worse. Because I usually make good first impressions.
The chart has been open for twenty minutes and I keep reading the same note. I don’t remember what I was writing. I scroll back to the beginning, delete a sentence, rewrite it, and I think it ends up exactly the same.
I think maybe I shouldn’t have used that stupid AI; but I didn’t really have a choice. Either I used Al-Hashimi’s AI, or I kept dictating, or I kept seeing patients. There aren’t enough hands, there isn’t enough time, there isn’t enough… anything.
And still…
I open the wrong chart.
I mix up names.
I have to reread a note three times, something I’d normally write on autopilot.
I feel like I’m losing my mind.
But not enough yet for anyone else to notice.
Sometimes I forget there was a time when someone said I wrote notes “better than a first-year surgery resident.”
A fifty-six year old male came into the ED; poorly controlled diabetic, twenty-four hours of progressively worsening left scrotal pain, irreducible. Tachycardic. White count at eighteen thousand. Elevated lactate.
Honestly, I think it was the biggest testicle I’ve ever seen in my life (and thankfully, I haven’t seen many).
I didn’t need more information: Incarcerated inguinoscrotal hernia with probable vascular compromise.
I was the first to examine him, and I already knew which extension to dial: 1121.
When I called her, I used the tone I always tried to use with her when we're at work: clear, professional, no hesitation.
“Fifty-six year old male with an incarcerated left inguinal hernia, irreducible, systemic inflammatory response, probably strangulated, urgent surgical candidate.”
She didn’t interrupt. She only asked: “How long has it really been?”
“Twenty-four hours. Probably more.”
“Is he NPO?”
I smiled, holding the phone between my shoulder and cheek.
“Tricky question. He doesn’t need strict NPO cause this is an incarcerated hernia with suspected strangulation. We can’t delay for a six or eight hour fasting protocol.”
I walked toward observation, actually trying to remember his last meal.
“Still, his last meal was about eight hours ago. In case anyone cares.”
A brief pause.
“Bring him up. Get consent and a full pre-op panel ready.”
She accepted the case without hesitation. Like always.
What I didn’t expect was that twenty minutes later, a scrub nurse came looking for me in the trauma bay.
“Are you Dr. Santos? They’re asking for you in the OR about your patient.”
I assumed it was paperwork. Or to give a quick handoff. Nothing else.
I walked into the anteroom still holding my clipboard when the nurse looked me up and down.
“Glove size?”
It took me a second.
“Sorry?”
“Glove size, doctor.”
That’s when I understood.
“Seven, please.”
She handed me a gown.
I walked in scrubbed, and Garcia was already reviewing the portable ultrasound image on the screen.
“What am I doing here?” I asked quietly, trying to sound calm.
Without looking away from the screen, she replied:
“I don’t have a resident today, and Robby owed me a favor.”
“You bribed my ED attending?” I asked amused, because the idea of her manipulating Dr. Robby felt absurd, and a little bit funny to be honest.
“I reminded him I covered a shift for him two weeks ago. Technically not bribery.”
That was all she said. No further explanation.
And then I watched her do what she does best: take over an OR.
Wide incision. Precise dissection. Tense sac; congested bowel loop, but viable.
I held the retractor, adjusting traction the second she shifted the angle of the scalpel. I didn’t need instructions. I’d learned to read her hands.
“Don’t lose the plane,” she said.
I didn’t.
She released adhesions with meticulous patience, then paused and handed me the Metzenbaum scissors.
“Dissect the cord.”
My heart sped up. That was the delicate part, the risk of injuring something was real.
“Me?”
For the first time, she looked me straight in the eyes
“I don’t see anyone else here.”
She held my gaze half a second longer, long enough to make it clear this wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a test either. She was making a decision. She was giving an order.
She placed the Metzenbaums in my hand, and I understood I didn’t have time to think. I had to move.
I identified vessels, separated them, protected the vas deferens. High ligation of the sac.
She didn’t say a word while I worked.
And when I finished, she just nodded.
That was enough.
The repair was clean. Layered closure, no tension.
In recovery, I cracked my fingers one by one, trying to shake off the rigidity of the instruments I could still feel in my hands.
The light thud of a chart against my arm made me turn. García didn’t even pretend to apologize.
“If you operate, you document. Write the post-op note. Let’s see if you write as well as you dissect.”
I held her gaze. She didn’t even try to hide it; she was smiling.
And I felt it almost like a challenge.
I structured the note: pre-op diagnosis, procedure performed, intraoperative findings, technique used, complications, estimated blood loss, hemodynamic status on transfer.
I handed it to her, expecting corrections.
She reviewed it in silence.
“It’s better written than what my first-year residents turn in.”
She turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
She said it like it didn’t mean much. But I held onto that sentence like my life depended on it.
3:00 p.m.
Now I reread my notes, the messages I don’t send, the ones I do send and immediately regret, and I don’t know when I stopped sounding like the person who knew exactly what she was doing.
Again, I try to focus on what I have to do.
A patient comes in with an acute abdomen; the CT scan shows a perforation, something that is clearly going to the OR. (do they really not have any more surgeons up there?) García goes down to evaluate.
I present the patient:
“56-year-old male, acute abdomen, tachycardic, lactate 2.8…”
“3.8,” García interjects without raising her voice, still trying to decipher my admission note on the screen.
A brief silence, thankfully, it’s just the three of us in the room: nurse Kim, her, and me.
“That’s what I meant.”
I grip my stethoscope a little tighter than necessary.
García doesn’t reply, keeps reading the screen.
“Since when?”
“Since triage.”
“That’s not what your note says”
I immediately feel stiff.
“I was updating it.” (a half lie)
García looks up for the first time.
She’s not angry, she's trying to look straight through me.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look tired.”
“I’m not.” The answer comes out faster and sharper than I meant it to.
There’s a brief pause.
“Did you eat?”
“I said I’m fine.”
García hasn’t broken eye contact (apparently now she can).
“You’re not useful to me if you pass out.”
“Useful to you? Since when am I?”
The silence that follows is different; not awkward, heavier.
For the first time, García’s expression shifts, just barely: her brows draw together a fraction, not in anger, but in something closer to confusion.
I know it probably wasn’t the place or the moment to say that. Nurse Kim pretends to check the monitor.
I watch García’s jaw tighten; she exhales through her nose.
“You’re not useful to anyone if you pass out halfway through your shift,” she says, turning back to the screen with my patient’s incomplete data.
“Send him up when he’s ready.”
She leaves the room without looking at me again.
Great.
I shouldn’t have said that.
It wasn’t about that.
It was about lactate.
Just that.
I pull off my gloves and toss them into the bin, maybe with more force than necessary.
Nurse Kim avoids looking at me as she says, “I’ll get him ready to send upstairs.”
“Thanks, Kim.”
And I focus. I always do.
I go back to the station, open the note. The cursor blinks.
The lactate value is still wrong in the first paragraph, so I correct it. I reread the note from the beginning and don’t remember writing half of that sentence.
Whitaker appears beside me.
“Heeey, bed twelve lost both peripherals, her pressure’s crashing, we probably need central access.”
Normally, I’d already be walking before he finished the sentence.
It takes me a second to answer.
“I’ll do it.”
Because of course I can do it, because this I know how to do it, because I need something to go right today.
___
In room twelve, the monitor beeps in an uneven rhythm; the patient’s skin is cold. I prep the kit without asking for help; familiar, mechanical movements.
Ultrasound on. Right IJ looks good.
Whitaker positions himself across from me, attentive. He always watches when I place central lines, like it’s some unofficial lesson.
Good, let him learn something.
Sterile gloves, grape, lidocaine, introducer needle.
The vein appears clearly on the screen. I enter on the first attempt: flash of dark blood. Perfect.
As I advance the guidewire, the word comes back to my mind.
Useful.
My jaw tightens.
I connect the dilator, there’s noise in the hallway, someone calling my name from a distance, I don’t answer.
I’m fine.
I remove the dilator. Instinctively, I adjust my mask with the back of my gloved hand (a small automatic gesture) and return to the field to advance the catheter.
“Step back.” Al-Hashimi’s voice isn’t loud, It’s firm.
It takes me exactly one second to understand.
“You broke sterility.”
I look at my hands, replay the movement in my head: the mask, the contact.
Right.
Silence in the room, the monitor keeps beeping.
Whitaker lowers his gaze without saying anything.
“New field, start over,” Al-Hashimi continues, already asking for another kit, not making a big scene about it.
I remove my gloves, I don’t argue, don’t explain, don’t try to justify myself.
I scrub in again.
The water is much colder than I expected.
In the metallic reflection of the sink, the first thing I see are the dark circles under my eyes, the red line from the mask across the bridge of my nose, and half my ponytail coming loose.
Oh. I’m a mess.
Whitaker walks in a second later to grab something, and when our eyes meet in the mirror, he looks away too quickly.
I don’t know if he felt sorry for me, but it feels like it.
I take a deep breath and go back into the room, re-prep the field; and this time i don’t miss.
When we’re done, Al-Hashimi only says: “Go eat something.”
I nod and leave the room without looking at anyone.
The ER keeps moving as if nothing happened.
So do I.
___
At my station, there are new papers over my keyboard: a consent form to sign, a printed blood gas.
And a sandwich in a clear plastic bag.
It’s to the left of my computer. As if someone had placed it there carefully, avoiding touching anything else.
My name, in black marker.
The “S” tilted slightly to the left.
The “t” too long.
I open the bag just enough to see the edge of whole wheat bread, turkey ham, lettuce, no tomato. Exactly how I order it.
And I already know who left it there, because I recognize that handwriting.
Weeks had passed. I’d been mentioning it for weeks.
“I refuse to believe that in the entire city of Pittsburgh nobody sells decent polvorón.”
Yolanda was leaning against the doorframe, scrolling through her phone.
“Is that another candy?”
“It’s not candy,” I replied without looking at her. “It’s Goldilocks: Ube. There’s a difference.”
I’d gone to three different Asian grocery stores and still couldn’t find it. I’d even asked Princess several times, across multiple shifts.
“I can’t believe even Princess doesn’t know where to get them,” she muttered one night, opening the fridge as if they might magically appear inside.
I said it laughing. I never explained that during my month in the Pain Clinic, the only things I could tolerate were soft, sweet foods that didn’t require effort.
I never said my grandmother used to buy them after every major gymnastics competition.
One afternoon, I opened my locker and something fell against my shoes.
A white box with red letters.
Goldilocks: Polvorón, ube.
On top, a post-it with Santos written in black marker.
That night, I tried to keep my tone light.
“Did you interrogate the entire Filipino community in Pittsburgh?”
Yolanda didn’t look up from her laptop, her fingers paused over the keyboard for half a second before she answered.
“Seafood City, they restock on thursdays.”
I waited. She didn’t add anything, just closed her laptop a little too carefully.
“You mentioned it.”
“Once.” I exhaled through my nose, almost a laugh.
“Four times.”
And that was it.
3:40 p.m.
And now, with the sandwich bag in front of me:
The “S” tilted slightly to the left.
The “t” too long.
This was never pity. Never boredom. Never that casual
I grip the bag between my fingers, and for the first time all day I stop pretending I don’t care.
Maybe I’m not as easy to let go of as I thought.
Maybe this isn’t something that can be managed anymore.
But neither is she.
9:00 p.m.
The shift from hell is finally over.
The hospital is quieter now. (Or maybe it isn’t but that’s night shift’s problem.)
I walk toward the parking lot, wishing I could just go home and sleep (or at least try).
Fireworks go off somewhere in the distance, but I don’t look up. I don’t care.
I take out my car keys, and just as I’m about to open the door, I hear boots approaching. Familiar. Unmistakable.
Not now Yolanda, please
“I don’t like leaving things unresolved.”
I don’t turn around.
My fingers are still wrapped around my keys. I press the unlock button twice by accident and the headlights blink. I don’t move.
I exhale slowly through my nose, not annoyed. Just tired. So tired of… everything.
My shoulders are slumped in a way I would usually fix if anyone were watching, but I don’t fix them now.
I finally turn my head just enough to acknowledge her presence, but not enough to fully face her.
Yolanda is standing in front of me now.
She looks the same as always after a long shift: posture straight, boots firm against the asphalt, hands at her sides like she’s about to walk into an OR instead of a parking lot.
She swallows, I see it.
Like she has a thousand things to say, but physically can’t.
For a second, it looks like she might change her mind. And then…
“I asked for a raincheck because I…”
I use the last bit of energy I have to interrupt her.
“Listen, If this is casual, just tell me, I can adjust. I’m good at adjusting”
Yolanda blinks once, then again. Her brows pull together immediately, not angry, confused. Really confused.
“Casual?” The word sounds almost ridiculous in her mouth.
She exhales, not irritated. Just processing.
“Is that what you think this is?”
I shrug, defensive. I don’t answer her question.
“I can make things simpler.”
Yolanda’s expression softens, not calm, alarmed.
“Simpler how?”
I let out a small breath through my nose, almost a laugh, but without humor.
“We set boundaries, no expectations, no…” she gestures vaguely between them, “Ambiguity.”
She watches me carefully and I keep going.
“I don’t need sleepovers, or holidays, or…” she swallows and recalibrates. “You don’t have to stay. If you want it light, we can keep it light.”
My fingers tighten around my keys.
“I can make it easy for you.”
There it is. Her jaw tightens.
I continue, faster now.
“If you don’t want it to mean anything, that’s fine; you don’t have to come over unless you want to. I won’t assume anything. And If you’d rather not leave things at my place, you can stop by and pick up your toothbrush. It’s not a big deal. I can just ..”
“Santos.”
I don’t stop.
“I can adjust my schedule, we don’t have to label anything, we can just…”
“Santos.”
But I’m already spiraling.
“I’m not asking for more. I just need to know what this is so I don’t…”
“Trinity!”
Her voice cuts through the air, loud, sharp; not angry, but desperate enough to break the spiral. And it stops me.
I freeze mid-sentence.
“I asked for a raincheck because I panicked.”
Silence falls between us.
I finally look at her.
Her chest is rising faster now. Her perfect composure cracked just a little.
“I panicked,” she repeats, softer this time, not defensive, not proud. “Because I don’t do this.”
Her brows are still drawn together, but now it’s frustration with herself.
“I don’t reschedule things I care about. Not unless I’m trying to control how much they affect me.”
A beat.
“And I lost control.”
The fireworks explode again somewhere behind the hospital. Too bright. Too loud.
She steps closer.
“I asked for a raincheck because I care. And that scares the shit out of me.”
The words hang there between us; not sharp anymore, not defensive. Just exposed.
Something settles between us.
The fireworks crack again in the distance, but neither of us flinches this time.
The air feels different, softer
I swallow.
“I thought you were just… bored.”
It’s quieter than anything I’ve said all night.
García blinks, like that idea never even crossed her mind.
“You think I get bored?”
There’s no edge in it, no teasing… just genuine disbelief.
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. I think It’s all over my face: the self-protection, the expectation of being temporary, the assumption that I’m easier to walk away from than to stay for.
She studies me for a second.
Then, softer: “You’re not something I get bored of.”
Another firework blooms overhead.
She lowers her voice.
“I don’t want this to be casual. I can’t do it casual anymore.” She says quietly.
And that’s it.
Just that.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for months. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling too hard.
“Oh. That’s… new information.”
“Well… get used to it, I guess,” she says, with the smallest, almost invisible wink.
I clear my throat. “I’m glad you’re not bored.”
Her lips curve into a wide smile. “Not even remotely.”
“Good. Because I was about to start being interesting out of spite.”
She laughs, surprised.
“I would’ve liked to see that.”
“Oh, you will.”
García gestures toward the parking lot.
“Come home with me.”
That's not a question.
I study her for half a second.
Long enough to decide I’m done pretending I can think my way out of this.
I nod once, small, decisive.
“Ok, but you're driving”
I step closer, already turning us both toward her car. My hand finds hers (gentle but steady) guiding me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“And for the record: if anyone wants to leave a toothbrush at my place, it’s staying.”
She bumps my shoulder.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late.”
We reach the car without saying anything else. She opens the door, pauses just long enough for me to slide in beside her, knees brushing, familiar already.
When she closes it, the sound feels final; a soft click that seals the night behind us.
Our hands find each other again between the seats, fingers fitting without searching.
And this time, neither of us pretends it’s casual.