Work Text:
The end of Baran Al-Hashimi’s first day at Pitt should have brought relief.
Instead, she stood in front of one of the locker-room doors, still wearing her work clothes, staring at her reflection in the dull metal as though it might offer her an answer.
It didn't.
Inside her, reason and emotion were waging a silent war.
She had trusted Robby.
It might have seemed like a small thing to someone else. A personal secret. Something delicate. Something she had spent years learning to protect.
And he had used it against her.
Baran closed her eyes for a moment.
Stupid.
Why had she thought she could trust him?
Why had she believed he would be her friend?
She should have known better.
Years of experience had taught her one simple, cruel truth: there was no room for weakness in that world. Especially not for someone who allowed others to see theirs.
She had spent half the day trying to fit in.
The other half trying to earn the bare minimum of respect.
And somehow, she had managed to accomplish neither.
What a ridiculous idea.
Her phone vibrated inside the pocket of her jacket.
Baran pulled it out and looked at the screen.
A message from her doctor.
Her new schedule for the following day.
She read it once.
Then again.
Her jaw tightened.
Of course.
Just today.
After so long without any significant episodes, her first day at Pitt had decided to remind her that her own body could still betray her.
Three times.
Three episodes in a single day.
Baran rested both hands against the counter in front of the locker and took a slow breath.
For a moment, she wanted to slam her head against the metal door.
Not because of pain.
Because of frustration.
It was unfair.
She had tried.
She had been careful.
She had taken her medication, followed every recommendation, learned to recognize the warning signs, and spent years building a life around something she couldn't control.
And still, all it had taken was one day.
Three episodes.
And now there were people at Pitt who probably saw her differently.
Fragile.
Complicated.
A liability.
Baran tightened her grip around the phone.
"Why today?"
The question disappeared into the empty locker room.
She took another slow breath, forcing herself to regain control.
She wasn't going to cry.
Not here.
Not because of Robby.
Not because of anyone.
She slipped the phone back into her pocket and closed the locker harder than she intended.
The metallic sound echoed through the room.
Baran stood still for a few seconds.
Then she picked up her bag.
If there was one thing she had learned over the years, it was that no one was coming to save her from that feeling.
So she would do what she always did.
Swallow it.
Straighten her shoulders.
And come back tomorrow.
As though nothing had happened.
---
Baran made the walk of shame.
Her eyes were lowered, her shoulders rigid, her entire body tense as though she were still trying to recover from the weight of the day.
Her headphones muffled some of the noise around her. A soft melody played in her ears, something she had chosen specifically for moments like this—when she needed something to bring her back to herself.
Breathe.
Just breathe.
The night shift was beginning to take over the hospital.
Patients were leaving the corridors while others arrived. Nurses exchanged information, doctors hurried through the doors, and at the center of that small storm, Abbott seemed to command everything with an almost irritating calm—and, as always, a touch of humor.
Baran watched him for a few seconds.
Maybe things would be different with him.
Maybe the hospital wasn't as hostile as it had seemed during the day.
Maybe...
She stopped herself.
Why fool herself?
She had already made that mistake once today.
She wasn't going to make it again.
When she reached the elevator, Baran noticed a small group of day-shift employees gathered a few feet away.
Perlah was among them.
Some were chatting excitedly while others checked their phones or carried small bags of food and drinks.
Baran pulled one of her earbuds out.
"Are you guys going somewhere?"
Perlah smiled.
"We're heading up to the roof to watch the fireworks."
Baran glanced toward the large windows overlooking the city.
"Are you coming with us, Dr. Al-Hashimi?"
Baran offered a polite smile.
"Thank you, but I'll pass."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Perlah looked disappointed for a moment, but quickly nodded.
"All right. Maybe next time."
Baran put her earbud back in.
She had never been particularly fond of fireworks.
There was something about them that stirred a familiar sense of unease.
The sound.
The flashes.
The anticipation between one explosion and the next.
Her body recognized it before her mind could explain why.
But tonight, there was another reason she couldn't stay.
She had promised Kian.
Her son loved the Fourth of July.
At five years old, he could still see only the beauty in the colorful lights exploding across the sky. To him, every burst was a tiny wonder. Every loud crack was met with wide eyes and an enormous smile.
Baran closed her eyes for a moment.
Kian didn't know the memories those same sounds awakened in her.
He didn't know about the refugee camps.
He didn't know the fear of her childhood.
He didn't know that, for some people, a sky full of fireworks could mean something very different from celebration.
And Baran wanted to keep it that way.
She wanted her son to have a childhood different from hers.
When the elevator doors finally opened, Baran stepped inside alone.
Before they closed, she heard Perlah say something to the others, followed by laughter.
Baran smiled faintly.
Maybe it was better this way.
Maybe tonight she didn't need to face the hospital.
Or Robby.
Or the looks.
Or the questions.
She just needed to get home.
She needed to see Kian.
And, for a few hours, simply be his mother.
Not a doctor.
Not the woman who had to hide her weaknesses.
Not the person who had spent the entire day trying to prove she was strong.
Just Baran.
Kian's mother.
And maybe, for tonight, that would be enough.
---
In the parking lot, Baran walked with determined steps toward her silver Volvo.
Before reaching the car, she glanced over her shoulder.
No one.
Still, she waited a few seconds, scanning the nearly empty parking lot before unlocking the driver's door.
She got in, tossed her bag onto the passenger seat, and fastened her seat belt.
Only then did she allow her shoulders to relax.
For a few seconds.
The anger returned almost immediately.
Her mind began reconstructing the day in fragments, rearranging every conversation, every look, every decision.
She imagined different responses.
Things she should have said.
Moments in which she could have maintained control.
Until one conclusion finally forced its way through the noise.
To hell with him.
He couldn't threaten her and expect her to be terrified.
She wasn't.
She hadn't done anything wrong.
She had come to Pitt to do exactly what she knew how to do.
She had worked with competence, attention, and responsibility.
That was why they had called her there in the first place.
So why?
Why did she keep wondering what that bitter man thought about her?
Baran closed her eyes.
Kian.
That was what mattered.
She wanted to see him.
She needed to see him.
She needed that little smile, that childish voice telling her something he had probably already told her five times that day.
She needed to remember why she kept fighting so hard.
But then another memory surfaced.
A mother.
A child in the hospital.
A terrible accident that had happened within minutes and had nevertheless seemed enough to destroy that woman's entire world.
Baran remembered the look in her eyes.
The fear.
The shame.
The way that mother seemed convinced she had failed her own child.
And Baran knew that feeling.
She knew what it was like to be judged.
Years ago, when her own episodes had begun interfering with her life, she had learned the hard way that people could turn something you never chose into a character flaw.
As though she had chosen it.
As though she simply hadn't been careful enough.
Strong enough.
Attentive enough.
But that wasn't how it worked.
That mother wasn't to blame.
And neither was Baran.
She couldn't control her seizures.
But she could control what she did afterward.
And she had done everything right.
She had comforted that mother.
She had stayed beside her when she needed someone.
She had followed protocol and notified her doctor.
She had done her job.
And, in the end, everything had worked out.
So why?
Why was Robby's voice still echoing inside her head?
Why had his words found such a deep place inside her?
Baran opened her eyes and stared at the steering wheel.
"You don't know anything about me," she whispered.
The silence of the car offered no answer.
She took a deep breath.
Once.
Twice.
Then she reached for her phone and opened her messages.
Just seeing Kian's name on the screen was enough to soften some of the tension in her face.
She needed to go home.
The rest could wait until tomorrow.
For tonight, she just wanted to be his mother.
And perhaps remind herself that there were still things in this world she didn't have to earn.
Some things simply belonged to her.
Like her son's love.
---
Baran shook those thoughts away.
It was the exhaustion.
It had to be.
The day had simply been too long.
She inserted the key into the ignition and turned it.
The Volvo's engine came to life, filling the silence of the parking lot.
Her hand rested on the gearshift.
But she didn't move it.
Something inside her simply stopped.
Her heart tightened.
Kian.
Her sweet boy.
She couldn't see him.
Baran closed her eyes and slowly released her breath.
His image appeared in her mind with almost painful clarity.
His smile.
His messy curls.
His excitement over the fireworks.
She wanted to see him.
She needed to see him.
But she couldn't.
Baran picked up her phone from inside her bag.
She unlocked the screen with a swipe and quickly searched for Kamran's number.
She called.
One ring.
Two.
"Hello?"
His voice sounded sleepy on the other end.
Baran swallowed.
"Hi. I'm sorry for calling this late. It's late, and I imagine Kian is asleep..."
"Oh, yeah. He passed out about an hour ago."
She smiled, even though Kamran couldn't see her.
"Would it be all right if I picked him up tomorrow morning? My car is having some trouble."
"Sure. No problem."
A muffled noise came from the other end of the line.
Then Kamran's voice changed.
"Are you okay? Do you need a ride?"
Baran looked through the windshield.
"I'm fine. I'll call a Lyft. Thank you, Kam..."
"You're welcome. Take care."
Baran closed her eyes for a moment and nodded, even though he couldn't see her.
"See you tomorrow."
The call ended.
Silence returned.
Baran remained still.
For several seconds, she simply stared at the phone screen.
Then she opened the Lyft app.
Her finger hovered over the screen.
She tried to enter the address.
She couldn't.
Her vision began to blur.
Baran blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The letters on the screen continued to dissolve behind a layer of tears she could no longer hold back.
She took a deep breath.
The air came in short.
It left even shorter.
Her hands began to tremble.
"No..."
The word barely made it past her lips.
She let the phone fall into her lap and brought one hand to her chest, trying to slow her breathing.
Not now.
Please.
Not now.
The first sob escaped before she could stop it.
Baran squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made the tears fall faster.
She had stayed standing all day.
In front of patients.
In front of her colleagues.
In front of Robby.
In front of every pair of eyes that seemed determined to find something wrong with her.
She had answered questions.
She had worked.
She had followed protocols.
She had pretended everything was fine.
But now she was alone.
And she couldn't pretend anymore.
"What did I do wrong...?"
The question came out broken.
She looked at the passenger seat, at the bag she had thrown there, and then at the empty space beside her.
Kian should have been there.
She should have been driving home.
She should have been listening to his voice telling her, for the thousandth time, how beautiful the fireworks were.
Instead, she was sitting alone in a nearly empty parking lot, trying to understand why everything had to feel so difficult.
Baran covered her face with both hands.
"Why did it have to be this way?"
The tears came harder.
And for the first time that day, she didn't try to hide them.
There was no one watching.
No one to impress.
No one to convince that she was strong.
There was only an exhausted woman sitting inside her car, carrying the weight of everything she had spent hours trying to hold by herself.
And, in that moment, all she wanted was to go home.
To her son.
To the one place where she didn't have to prove anything at all.