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July is a knife carefully tucked between his fifth and sixth rib, the memory of sweat pouring down his face as he burst through the hospital doors and into the blinding white sun.
July is the end of everything.
And then Samira Mohan stops him by the lockers at shift change, tugging her curls free from a clip and shaking them out around her shoulders. “Dr. Abbot! I read that case study you emailed me,” she says. He drags his gaze from a curl right by her temple, resisting the urge to wrap it around his finger. “Thank you. For thinking of me, I mean.”
Her eyes are bright, umber flecked with gold. She’s so fucking young. Something in his stomach twists, a snake devouring its own tail, doomed before he’s even put a name to it. The patch of light that is Samira Mohan.
or, on the ninth anniversary of his wife's death, jack abbot doesn't fall apart.