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The light turns red three blocks after the PTMC.
The radio plays quietly in the background with a song whose tune Samira knows well enough to recognise over her earphones. It's the same one they hear every single time, because Jack either doesn't know how to change the radio frequencies or he doesn't care about it. Samira looks outside as the rain taps against the windshield, growing steadily heavier with every passing minute, turning the city outside into a haze of red taillights and blurred neon signs. The morning light is weak, filtered through clouds thick with rain.
It's only August, but Pittsburgh seems to be in a November-like daze.
Beside her, Jack drums his fingers against the steering wheel, against the silence. The silence is comfortable and necessary, neither of them have the energy to do or say anything.
The dashboard glows a muted blue, and a half-empty coffee cup—probably Samira's—sits forgotten in one of the cupholders. There are receipts shoved into the compartment beside the gearshift and a crumpled napkin tucked between the leather seats. The sedan is lived-in, almost fifteen years old, and Samira is extremely familiar with it.
Samira can feel the exhaustion in the ache behind her eyes and the stiffness of her neck every time she turns her head. It's customary to a twelve-hour shift. She suspects Jack feels it too, though he's always been better at carrying his fatigue than she is.
More than the physicality of it, more importantly, rather, Jack Abbot, knows how to leave his baggage outside the hospital.
Samira, on the other hand, is a emotional conveyor belt of beat-up suitcases that are desperately trying to get through TSA.
Unfortunately, Samira also has too many wants.
She wants a better relationship with Robby. She wants to be less affected by it everything that happens. She wants something more with the man sitting beside her, driving her home.
They probably should say something. The silence is making her feel a bit heavy-headed. As her father would have said, "Too much silence is never good, kanna."
And he was right. Silence can be great, awesome, but the kind that's built from too many almost-conversations that threaten to burst from her larynx at any moment? That's not ideal.
Samira Mohan wants too many things, and doesn't really care about what she needs, because what she needs is to break up with Jack. She needs to be faster and save more patients. She needs to be able to feel good with what she already has with him. She needs to want something more than a boyfriend.
The 'situation', as Samira likes to call it, had stemmed from a mixture of adrenaline and emotional repression, also known as Pittfest.
It had happened without any foreshadowing— other than the pigtail catheter, although Samira still doesn't know what exactly "taking the win" means, and it'll be embarrassing to ask now.
It's easy, really easy. They're keeping it casual, for a good reason too. He's an attending, fucking a resident. She's a resident, fucking an attending. "Either way, we're screwed, so what's the point of telling HR," Samira had told Jack the morning after, and he had agreed immediately. Samira won't deny, however, the heavy tinge of sadness she had felt. Maybe part of her thought he would disagree, tell her he liked her too much to do so.
It wasn't an easy decision, because Samira isn't always the best at knowing her emotions, but once she had gotten diarrhea out of the way as a potential reason for the incessant twisting and turning of her stomach, she had very unfortunately realised that maybe she did want Jack Abbot as a permanent addition to her life.
Samira isn't privy to if Jack likes her back, and in her gut, she knows that at most, he would want to date her for some time, but it cannot be that he actually likes her.
She watches droplets race down the windshield, and tries to pay attention to the music she's listening to, but she can't.
Jack glances over briefly. "Tired?"
It's just one word, and it's from a place of politeness, like it always is.
She shrugs. "A little," and that's the end of it.
The light remains stubbornly red, like it wants to be annoying.
One year ago, Samira would've killed for this. The Jack who disapproves of the supposedly abhorrent amount of sugar she takes her coffee with, but brings it to her anyway, muttering about cavities. He keeps granola bars in the glove compartment because she forgets to eat during shifts, and he notices when she's cold and quietly turns up the heat without asking. The Jack who's her partner boyfriend lover something, instead of just her attending.
He kisses her on the forehead whenever he sees her, and he has a bottle of her favourite shampoo at his house, "for practicality," as he claims.
It's supposedly perfect. She gets the Jack Abbot without the trauma and PTSD and grief. She gets the version of him that's soft and hot and doesn't expect her to placate him. They're just friends with benefits, and that very thought makes Samira want to throw up.
Because once again, Samira wants. She wants and wants and wants until the only thing left in her soul is the bitter taste of sorrow about what could have been, what should have been.
She feels bad for the stuffed animals she finds at the thrift store— how did she expect to not feel bad about Jack?
She regrets everything— the longing stares, the first night, the weakness that had made her even want to have sex with him. Most importantly, Samira regrets telling him that she wanted to keep things casual. It wasn't forced upon him, and Samira's smart enough to know that he would have also suggested that they keep it no strings attached, but what if? What if right here, right now, Samira could tell Jack that she loves her, and she could guarantee that he would say it back?
Yes, Samira Mohan is in love with Jack Abbot.
The car finally lurches forward as soon as the lights turn green, and Samira cannot wait to get home.
To some extent, she thinks he cares about her. Some days, she thinks she knows, when she catches him looking across the hall at her, with something soft and startled in his eyes, like he's forgotten she can see him too.
It shouldn't happen, but sometimes, he calls her just because. Not for sex, but just to talk to her, ask her how her day went. Every damn time he does so, she picks up. They fall asleep on the phone together, like the friends with benefits that they are. It's comical that Samira had thought she would be able to keep her feelings neat and tidy in a box.
She's pissed, not at him, because what's there to be angry at him about?
Jack has never tried to force their relationship along, or ever expressed that he wants something more. He's so infuriatingly nice about it. On the dates they've been on—not dates, just... dinners together at a fancy restaurant—he never lets her pay. He knows that she hates having her chair pulled out for her, but that she finds it charming when he opens her car door before she can.
Jack, in a way, might know Samira better than she knows herself, and the thought of that happening is scary.
Three blocks away from Samira's apartment, the light turns red again, and Samira groans before she can help it. She cannot be stuck in this godforsaken car for any longer. She cannot and she will not.
Jack chuckles, "You tired of me already, sweetheart?"
He also loves calling her 'sweetheart' to rile her up, which might have been amusing, but it just makes her sad right now.
So Samira reaches over and unlocks the car door with a click.
Jack barely glances over. "I don't think traffic's bad enough to have to walk, Mira."
"I know."
Not even her own mother calls her Mira.
She opens the door anyway, and cold rain immediately hits her as she steps out.
"What the fuck are you doing?" His voice rings out, confused and shocked, but she doesn't care.
By the time her shoes hit the pavement, she's already soaked. The light is still red and Samira starts walking without looking back, because if she looks back, she'll stay.
It's been months since they've been doing this. His hand on the small of her back. Falling asleep on his couch. Taking her out to dinner. Everything except an actual relationship, and Samira is the only person to blame for that.
The rain falls harder, dripping through the hair that she had washed in his enormous bathroom that morning. There's only twenty more feet to go before she reaches the front steps of her apartment building.
She keeps walking. Behind her, a car door slams, and her heart nearly stops when she hears it.
"Samira!" Why the fuck did he have to get out of the car?
She doesn't turn, even when footsteps splash through puddles, closer and faster. Damn him for being so fast.
"Samira, stop walking!" His voice is sharp and demanding, but there's worry masked down there somewhere.
"Samira!" Fuck. He finally catches up to her, and steps in front of her, blocking her way before she can run.
Jack stands there, completely drenched, like her. His silvery are plastered to his forehead, water running down his face and his t-shirt sticking to his torso.
He looks furious and terrified at the same time, his eyebrows furrowed in anguish.
"What the fuck was that? You walked straight into traffic, Samira, what the fuck?!" he demands.
She stares at him, and he stares back, taking her wrist into a firm grip. Oh he isn't going to let this go, is he? To be honest, Samira didn't really have a plan for what she would do if he followed her.
"Mira," he sighs deeply. "Get in the car."
"Nope."
"Samira—"
"You know what? I can't do this anymore."
Her voice cracks immediately, pathetically.
"I don't want to do this anymore."
Jack's face immediately changes into distress.
"Samira—"
"No. Don't." Rain streams down her face like tears she doesn't have to admit to.
"I can't keep pretending."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know, it's— god," Her shakes her head, a bitter chuckle escaping while he watches on. "Every time you look at me like—" Her voice trembles, more violently this time. "Like I'm something important to you."
"You are important to me."
"So that's it?" she asks. "That's all I get?"
He looks genuinely confused.
"What are you talking about?"
She laughs again.
"Then why— why don't you want me?"
Jack just stares. "Of course I want you."
"No," she spits out, "No, you don't. Not like how I want you. I know it's stupid and dumb but I want you as more than whatever the fuck we are right now—" She hiccoughs, before continuing.
"Samira, are you saying—"
"I want to go out with you, I wanna sleep with you, I want to help you and love you and I know it's better to keep it casual—" The words are coming out in a flurry now, along with sobs, and she can't seem to be able to stop.
"I never—"
"It's unfair, this isn't a relationship, but godammit Abbot, I’m sorry I fell in love with you, okay? But it happened and I can’t do shit about it and I just really fucking needed you to know!”
She's a hundred percent sure she's full-on sobbing now, as the rain pounds against the pavement and the weight of what she just said sinks into them.
That was one hell of a way to break up. At least he has the decency to not laugh.
She wrenches her wrist from his grip, and wipes at her face with the sleeve of her jacket.
"I know that's not what this is for you," she says quietly, after a moment or two. "I know you wanted something casual and uncomplicated and I tried. God, I tried."
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
"I'm going. Sorry, Jack."
"Mira—"
"But I can't do it anymore." Every single word hurts, like she's stepping closer and closer into a knife stabbed through her chest. She loves Jack Abbot, and there's nothing she can do about it.
"I know we will never work out, we want different things, and it's okay that you don't want to date me—"
His entire face changes, like she's just said something impossible.
"What?"
"I can't—"
"Samira."
His voice is sharp. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"That I love you, and you don't love me, and I'm fine with it—"
He lets out a sharp exhale. "Samira, I thought you—"
"I know what I said, but you're an attending, and I just didn't want to put you in an awkward place, and— fine. I didn't want you to be the one to tell me, because I didn't think I would be able to handle it. There."
Samira doesn't think she's ever admitted that to anyone, even herself.
"Samira, I love you."
She blinks twice. She must have misheard. "What?"
He drags both hands through his hair. "Samira, I have been in love with you for two whole years."
"Jack—"
"I thought you didn't want anything serious with me."
"Why didn't you say anything?"