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The break room carried the particular kind of quiet that only hospital workers recognized as quiet at all.
It was never true silence. Sound seeped through the walls no matter how far the room sat from the rest of the floor—monitors chirping somewhere down the hall, the muffled roll of a gurney wheel, a voice over the intercom dissolving into static. Even here, with the door slightly shut, the noise clung to the air like residue. Hospitals did not believe in silence. They only offered distance.
Frank sat alone at the small table beneath the cork board.
His elbows rested on the laminate surface, pressed hard enough into the edge that his shoulders had curved forward with the kind of concentration usually reserved for suturing something delicate. In front of him lay a folded sheet of paper whose crease had been worked over so many times it was beginning to hold its shape out of spite.
He opened it. Stared. Then, he folded it again.
Beside him sat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, cut diagonally with unnecessary precision and wrapped haphazardly in a crinkled birthday napkin he’d scavenged from somewhere.
Frank rolled a pen between his fingers, slow and deliberate, the way he might test the balance of a surgical instrument he hadn’t quite decided how to use yet.
The paper opened again beneath his hands.
The first line had already been written—I’m not particularly good at this sort of thing.
Frank leaned back in the chair, squinting at the sentence like it had insulted him personally.
It sounded defensive. Weak, even. He scratched it out with immediate regret. The pen carved a thick, irritated line across the page.
The suggestion had come from group. Of course it had. It was said in a circle of folding chairs in a church basement, the coffee weak and the air smelling faintly of old hymnals.
There, people took turns saying things that were sometimes uncomfortable and sometimes painfully obvious. Someone had suggested writing letters you wished you could send, things you weren’t ready to say out loud yet.
Frank had scoffed at the time. Still, the suggestion had followed him home anyway, quiet, persistent. It turned up in the back of his mind during double shifts, during the long drives back from the hospital when the roads were empty and his thoughts had too much room to wander.
Now here he was, writing a letter like an infatuated teenager.
He tried again, the pen finally touching paper—You probably don’t realize how much I—
Frank stopped, his jaw tightening. This was worse, much worse. He crossed it out so quickly the pen nearly tore the page. Jesus.
He dragged a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes before reaching for the sandwich. He took a bite, chewing slowly while staring down at the paper like it might eventually cooperate if he waited long enough.
Frank chewed slowly, deliberately, like he was trying to prove something to himself. Peanut butter, thick and a little too dry against the roof of his mouth. Strawberry jam, too sweet, if he was being honest, spreading across his tongue in that sticky way that made you reach for water.
Mindful eating, someone in group had called it. Focus on the taste. The texture. The act of chewing. Stay where you are.
Frank tried.
Peanut butter. Bread. Strawberry. His jaw worked slowly while he stared at the bitten sandwich. Strawberry. That part wasn’t an accident.
He used to buy grape. Always grape. Grape was the default. It was cheap, predictable, something you grabbed without thinking.
Then one afternoon months ago, you’d stolen half his sandwich during a break between patients. Just reached over without asking, took a bite like it was a shared resource, chewed thoughtfully for a second before making a small face.
“Grape?” You’d commented, handing it back like it had disappointed you. “Frank, come on.”
You’d disappeared down the hall before he could ask what that was supposed to mean.
The next time he bought groceries, he’d stood in the aisle longer than necessary before reaching for strawberry instead.
He hadn’t really thought about it again after that. Until now.
Frank looked down at the sandwich in his hand, taking another bite. Still too sweet.
He turned the sandwich slightly between his fingers like it might reveal something new about itself from another angle. The napkin crinkled softly. Peanut butter had begun to creep out along the seam where the bread met the jam.
Frank exhaled through his nose, staring at the sandwich a moment longer, then shook his head once, sharp and dismissive, like he could physically dislodge the feeling it brought him.
Ridiculous. He set it back down beside the paper.
The folded sheet waited patiently where he’d left it, the pen still resting across the top like a challenge.
Frank unfolded it again, slower this time.
The page looked worse now—crossed-out lines, hesitant starts, ink pressed too hard in places where he’d clearly been thinking too long before committing to the words. It looked less like a letter and more like the aftermath of a small argument.
He picked up the pen again, rolling it once between his fingers before letting the tip hover over the page.
Frank tapped the pen lightly against the paper, the point leaving a tiny dot of ink where it landed.
The truth was, he didn’t even know what the letter was supposed to be. It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a confession. If anything, it felt like something simpler than that. Something obvious in a way that made it harder to put into words.
Above him, the corkboard sagged beneath its usual layers of hospital detritus—expired CPR reminders curling at the corners, handwritten shift trades pinned over older shift trades, a glossy flyer advertising a pediatric oncology fundraiser.
Frank didn’t look up at any of it. His attention remained fixed on the blank space beneath the sentence he’d already written.
The break room door swung open then, hard enough that it bounced once against the stopper.
Frank’s eyes lifted.
You came in with the brisk momentum of someone already running late for the next thing. Your sweater hung open, sleeves shoved halfway up your forearms. The bell of your stethoscope knocked softly against your chest as you crossed the room.
There was a contained urgency to the way you moved, something alert and purposeful. The posture of someone who had spent the better part of the shift putting out small fires and had little patience left for anything unnecessary.
You didn’t notice Frank immediately because you were already scanning the corkboard.
“Unbelievable.”
Frank glanced up from the table.
You stepped closer to the board, narrowing your eyes at a bright yellow flyer tacked near the center.
STAFF APPRECIATION WEEK.
Free pizza lunch. Raffle prizes. Activities. Staff party. It was insultingly cheerful.
“They cut staffing again…” you commented flatly.
Frank watched you for a moment before answering. “Yeah. They did.”
“...they denied both of my PTO requests.” The words came out under your breath, sharp with irritation.
“They did.”
“And now they’re throwing us a pizza party?” You turned halfway toward him.
“It’s a gesture.” Frank lifted one shoulder in a small shrug.
You blinked at him slowly. “A gesture...”
The way you said it suggested the word might be contagious. Frank hid the ghost of a smile behind another bite of his sandwich.
You sighed, rubbing a hand briefly over the back of your neck before finally noticing him properly. Your gaze dropped to the table. His sandwich.
Without hesitation, you reached over and took the untouched half. Frank opened his mouth. You took a bite before he could object. He watched you chew with quiet resignation.
“This—” You said, still studying the cork board as you spoke, “—is exactly the kind of thing administrators do when they want to pretend morale is a mystery.” Another bite. “They think carbohydrates will distract us from the fact that everyone’s drowning.”
“Carbohydrates are powerful.” Frank tilted his head thoughtfully.
“Not that powerful.”
Frank huffed softly. Your eyes drifted back toward the table. And landed on the paper. Frank moved before he even realized he was doing it. The sheet disappeared beneath his hand.
Your brow lifted slightly. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
The answer came a little too quickly.
You leaned a fraction closer, resting your hip lightly against the edge of the table. Frank had already begun folding the page, once, then again, creasing the paper with careful, unnecessary precision before drawing it back toward himself.
“Just something for a patient…”
You watched the motion, the way his hand lingered there a moment longer than it needed to. Your gaze drifted up to his face.
“Since when do you write things down?” You took another bite of the sandwich as you asked it, studying him over the edge of the crust.
“Sometimes I do.” Frank shrugged, though the movement was slightly stiff.
A faint flush had crept along the back of his neck. He cleared his throat and looked down at the napkin, smoothing it flat against the table as though it required his full attention.
You hummed softly around the bite, unconvinced but not particularly invested in pressing the point. Frank had that look about him—the one he got when a case had gotten under his skin or a patient’s situation had followed him out of the room and into the rest of his day.
He seemed distracted and a little tight around the edges. You’d seen it before.
Your eyes lingered on him another second, quiet and assessing, before the moment passed. You finished the last bite of the sandwich and brushed the crumbs from your fingers.
Then, you pushed off from the table.
As you stepped past him toward the door, you reached out automatically and ruffled his hair, the gesture quick and familiar, followed by a brief squeeze to his shoulder.
“Lighten up,” you said dryly. “Only a few hours left.”
—
The note hadn’t fallen dramatically.
There had been no slow drift through the air, no poetic spiral toward the floor. No moment of cinematic realization.
It had simply slipped from the pocket of Frank’s scrubs somewhere between an exam room and the nurses’ station, sliding loose as he reached for a pen he already had.
The paper landed near the base of the supply rack and stayed there, folded neatly in on itself like it had always belonged among the clutter of the hospital floor.
Frank didn’t notice because hospitals were very good at swallowing small things.
The hallway pulsed with its usual restless rhythm—rubber soles squeaking against polished tile, monitors chirping somewhere behind closed doors, voices weaving over one another in overlapping strands of conversation. Pages over the intercom. A rolling cart rattling past.
Amid all that movement, the folded paper waited quietly on the ground, patient and unremarkable, just another small thing hoping to be noticed.
It was Perlah who spotted it first.
She bent automatically, scooping it up before a passing cart could roll over it. She turned the paper in her hand once, brow furrowing. “Huh.”
“What?” Across the station, Princess glanced up from the chart she was entering.
“Someone dropped this.” Perlah held up the folded page.
“Patient chart?” Princess rolled her chair closer with a squeak of wheels.
“Doesn’t look like it.” Perlah unfolded it halfway.
Then paused.
Princess squinted. “Well?”
“Oh.” Perlah slowly raised one eyebrow.
“What’s oh?”
“This is interesting.” Perlah glanced at the page again, then looked up.
“Perlah.” Princess stood now, leaning across the counter to grab it.
“You are not authorized.” Perlah held the paper just out of reach.
Princess snatched it anyway.
She opened the page fully, her eyes skimmed the scratched-out lines first—sentences started and abandoned, dark pen marks crossing things out with surgical precision. No matter how hard the person had tried to erase what they wrote, the underneath was still legible to nurses’ eyes.
“Ay naku.” Her mouth fell open. (Oh my.)
“Right?” Perlah leaned closer.
“This is a love letter.” Princess slapped the paper lightly against the desk. Perlah nodded solemnly. Princess looked around the nurses’ station, lowering her voice immediately. “Wait, wait—tingnan mo ‘to.” (Look at this.)
Perlah leaned closer again while Princess tapped the page.
“‘You make the hard days quieter.’” Princess placed a hand dramatically on her chest. “Matindi yan…” (That’s intense…)
“Someone's in deep.” Perlah snorted quietly.
“Sino ‘to?” (Who wrote this?) Princess folded the note halfway again, lowering her voice further.
“Maaaring kahit sino…” Perlah shrugged. (Could be anyone…)
Princess’ eyes lit up with a dangerous enthusiasm. “Maybe it’s for me.”
“Please.” Perlah didn’t even hesitate rolling her eyes.
However, within minutes the nurses’ station had quietly turned into an investigation hub.
Princess scribbled names onto a scrap of paper. Perlah casually compared handwriting samples on a few charts. Two other nurses were quietly pulled into the operation.
Princess leaned close to Perlah again. “Kung si Patel ‘to, I swear—” (If this is Patel, I swear—)
“Too neat.” Perlah shook her head.
“Si O’Brien?” (O’Brien?)
“Too boring.”
“Whoever wrote this is in love...” Princess tapped the page again thoughtfully.
“Or trying to apologize.”
You arrived at the nurses’ station just as Princess finished adding another name to the scrap of paper. Both of them froze for a split second—an almost comically guilty pause that lasted just long enough to be noticeable.
Your eyes narrowed. “What are you—
“Nothing.” Princess said quickly.
She flipped the scrap paper upside down with unnecessary speed. Beside her, Perlah shifted her weight and leaned against the counter in a way that was meant to look casual.
You stared at them both.
You had worked too many shifts with these women to believe anything about this was nothing.
Princess cracked first.
Within seconds she slid the folded note across the counter toward you.
“Someone dropped this.”
You unfolded it slowly, your eyes skimmed the page the way they would a chart—first the structure, then the details. There you found the scratched-out lines that caught your attention immediately. Sentences started, abandoned, and rewritten. The pen marks were deliberate, pressed hard enough to dent the paper.
Someone had tried very hard not to say something. Then your gaze settled on a surviving line. You make the hard days quieter.
You said nothing for a moment.
“Someone has an admirer.” Your expression stayed neutral, but your eyes lingered on the crease of the page just a beat longer than necessary. “So what?”
“See!” Princess pointed triumphantly at Perlah. “I knew it was romantic.”
“It sounds like grovelling to me.” Perlah tapped the desk. “Regardless, the question is who wrote it.”
“And who it’s for,” Princess added.
“Do we know whose handwriting it is?” You glanced down at the scrap paper Princess had partially hidden.
“Still investigating.” Perlah shook her head.
Princess slid the list closer to you again, unable to help herself. You skimmed it to see a handful of names. Some were circled, others crossed out.
“If Dana catches wind of this…” you murmured.
“Relax. We’re multitasking.” Perlah waved a dismissive hand.
Before you could say anything else, a voice spoke behind you.
“What are we multitasking?”
You turned.
Frank had stepped up beside you without much sound, the fatigue of a long shift sitting quietly around his eyes and shoulders.
You held up the folded paper.
“We found the start of a love letter…”
Frank’s expression stayed neutral. Then his eyes landed on the paper. A small, almost invisible tension moved through his shoulders.
“...and Perlah and Princess are minutes away from starting a betting pool.” You added, gesturing toward the desk.
“Are they?” Frank folded his arms loosely.
“Why?” Princess brightened immediately. “You want in?”
“No.” Frank let out a quiet breath that almost passed for a laugh. His eyes drifted back to the paper in your hand. His stomach sank as he cleared his throat lightly. “...any guesses?”
For a moment you didn’t answer. You leaned forward slightly instead, resting your hands on the counter as your gaze drifted down to the folded page.
“Hard to say.” Your mouth twitched faintly. “...but whoever wrote it is probably in trouble.”
You held his gaze a second longer than necessary. Something about the way you said it felt oddly specific, even if it wasn’t.
“Yeah?” Frank said quietly.
“Anyone writing something like that…” You pushed off the counter, straightening. “…they should probably hope the person never finds out.”
“You’re allergic to romance.” Princess groaned immediately. “Unless it was you.”
Princess didn’t even let the sentence finish before she was lunging forward, eyes wide with vindication.
“I knew it—” she started, already half-turning to Perlah, already reaching for a pen like she was about to formalize this into something dangerously organized.
You moved faster.
The paper snapped out of her hand with a clean, decisive motion. The sound of it cut through the low hum of the station just enough to stall everyone mid-breath.
Princess blinked. “—Hey!)
You didn’t look at her and you didn’t look at Perlah either. Rather, your eyes stayed on the note for one brief second, just long enough to refold it along its already-worn crease, before you slid it back against your palm like it belonged there.
“Yeah,” you said, almost absently. “It was me.”
Perlah’s brows lifted slowly. Princess’s mouth fell open in stages, like her brain had to catch up piece by piece.
“…what?” Princess finally managed.
You shrugged, like you hadn’t just dropped a live wire into the middle of the room.
“Thought I’d try getting in touch with my mushy side.” Your tone stayed dry, clinical almost, like you were discussing a chart note. “Seemed like a good use of my break.”
Princess stared at you, scandalized. “You?”
“Shocking, I know.”
“For who?” Perlah crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly as she studied you knowing better.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you tucked the folded paper into your pocket with deliberate care, smoothing it once like it mattered more than you were letting on.
“Does it matter?”
“It absolutely matters,” Princess shot back, recovering quickly. “We were going to start a list. You can’t just claim it and shut down the investigation.”
“Watch me.”
“Convenient.” Perlah huffed a quiet laugh under her breath, shaking her head
“Mm.” You glanced down at the chart in front of you, already shifting gears, already moving on. “You’re welcome to start a new pool if you’re bored.”
“Oh, we will,” Princess muttered, though there was no real heat behind it. Her eyes flicked between you and your pocket, suspicion simmering now instead of excitement.
Through all of it, Frank hadn’t said a word.
You could feel it, though. There wasn’t obvious to his silence. No one else at the station seemed to clock it, but there was a stillness to him now, something quieter than before, like the air around him had gone just slightly thinner and a lot more delicate.
When you finally looked up, your gaze found him easily. He was already looking at you.
There was something caught in his expression, something small and restrained and trying very hard not to be either relieved or exposed. His arms were still loosely folded, but his posture had changed in that almost imperceptible way he’d been bracing every shift back after ten months away.
“…you?” He nodded absently to the note, and it came out softer than he probably intended.
“Problem?” You held his gaze.
There it was again, that faint, almost-there edge to your tone. You weren’t defensive, rarely were you ever. You weren’t teasing, either, but you were somewhere stuck in between, something like new territory for you.
Frank exhaled quietly through his nose, the ghost of a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth before he tucked it away.
“No,” he said after a beat. “No problem.”