The morning sun streamed softly through the hospital blinds, painting golden stripes across the floor.
I opened my eyes slowly.
The sterile ceiling greeted me again, but something inside me felt… still. Not better. Not healed. But quiet.
I sat up, wincing as the stiffness from yesterday's collapse settled in my spine. The world outside the window looked too alive for how hollow I felt. I slid my legs off the bed, careful not to wake Marianne, who had fallen asleep curled up in the hospital chair beside me.
A nurse passed in the hallway, but I didn't stop her. I slipped on my slippers, grabbed the hoodie Marianne had left folded for me, and walked—silently—toward the hospital garden.
Outside, the world looked like it had no idea anything tragic ever happened.
The sun warmed my skin like a lullaby. The breeze danced with the hem of my gown. I walked slowly, breathing it in—the scent of dew on jasmine, the faint chirp of birds nesting in the oak tree near the center of the garden.
I paused under that tree.
Above me, a small nest sat in the crook of a branch, and from it, I heard the high-pitched chirping of newborn birds. Tiny beaks craned upward, waiting to be fed. A mother bird fluttered down beside them, tucking them in with her wings like a lullaby I'd never get to sing.
All around me, the world was growing.
The flowers were budding, stretching toward the light. The leaves glistened. The grass swayed.
Everything was blooming—except me.
I wrapped my arms around myself and whispered, "Why does life keep going when mine just stopped?"
A gust of wind answered in silence.
I walked back inside, wiping the corner of my eye before it turned into a tear.
As I stepped through the hallway, I saw her—Marianne, frantic, pacing near my room.
"Selin!" she rushed toward me, her face pale. "Where were you? I—I woke up and you were gone. You can't just disappear like that—after yesterday—after everything—"
"I'm okay," I said gently, placing my hand over hers. "I promise. I just needed a moment. Some air. That's all."
She looked at me with glassy eyes, then hugged me so tightly I thought I might shatter.
"I'm fine, Marianne. Rest assured," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.
She froze.
But instead of relaxing, her shoulders tensed further, and she looked at me with something that wasn't just concern—it was pity. The kind of look people give when they want to believe you, but they already know you're lying.
"Don't say that if it's not true," she whispered. "Not to me."
I looked away, pretending to fix the cuff of my sleeve. "I'm just tired. That's all."
"You're not just tired, Selin." Her voice cracked. "You collapsed. You screamed until your throat gave out. You cried like you lost someone."
I almost said I did.
But the words stayed lodged in my throat like broken glass.
She took a hesitant step closer. "You don't have to be strong with me. You never have to be strong with me."
I swallowed hard, blinking too fast.
"I don't know how to be anything else," I admitted.
Then, quieter, "If I stop pretending I'm okay, I might never start again."
Marianne didn't say anything. She just pulled me into a hug—one hand behind my head, the other around my shoulders—like she could hold the truth in place for both of us.
And for a second, I let her.
Marianne held me tightly, her breath steady against my temple, as if she were anchoring me back to earth.
After a moment, she pulled back just enough to look me in the eye.
"You need to go to the dean," she said softly, but there was no room for argument in her tone.
I blinked at her. "Why?"
"Because you're not okay. And it's okay to say that. You can't just come back to work like nothing happened. You need time. You need space. And you need to stop pretending that walking through this will be as easy as breathing."
I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off.
"This isn't about giving up," she continued. "It's about healing before you collapse again. And trust me, you don't have to prove anything to anyone—not to the hospital, not to the patients, not even to yourself. Not right now."
"But—"
"Selin." She gently placed both hands on my shoulders. "Go. Walk in there, and take the day. Hell, take the week if you need to. This is your life. Not a shift to cover."
I exhaled slowly, the resistance in me unraveling like thread.
"Just one day," I whispered.
"For now," she said. "And when you're ready to come back, you'll do it on your terms."
So I nodded.
And turned toward the hallway.
Because maybe, for the first time in days, I was finally learning that strength didn't always mean standing tall.
Sometimes, it meant simply knowing when to sit down.
I made my way toward the administrative wing. The quiet of the hospital corridors made each step feel louder than the last.
The halls were already whispering.
It's strange how fast news travels in a place where life and death pass hands every hour. I saw it in the way two nurses glanced at me before quickly looking away. In the way an intern stepped aside with too much sympathy in his eyes.
People knew.
They didn't say anything—but they knew.
When I reached the door with the golden plaque— Dr. Altan Csepel, Chief Medical Officer—I paused only briefly.
Then I knocked.
A soft "Come in" followed, and I pushed the door open slowly.
The dean looked up from behind his desk. Her brows lifted in mild surprise, but he set his pen down at once. "Ms. Yildiz."
I stepped inside, standing tall despite the weight pressing against my spine.
"I'm taking the day off today."
His expression softened. "Of course. That's perfectly fine. Take whatever time you need."
"I just need one day," I clarified—not asking, not explaining. Just saying it aloud, like it was a fact I needed to believe myself.
He studied me closely, her eyes flickering with something between concern and restraint.
"Selin… are you alright?"
There it was again.
That gentle, well-meaning question everyone asks when the answer is obvious.
I smiled, but it didn't reach anything beneath my skin. "I'm managing."
He smiled back—one of those tight, polite smiles that people wear when they don't know what else to offer. When there's too much grief in the room, and all they have is professionalism.
"If you need anything—support, time, someone to speak to—my door's open," she said quietly.
"Thank you."
I turned to leave.
Behind me, the door clicked shut.
Ahead of me, the day stretched long and uncertain. The garden outside was bright with spring—the air thick with blooming jasmine and sunlight.
Everything around me was growing.
And I was just trying to keep breathing.
The cab ride home was quiet.
I didn't say much to the driver, and he didn't press me. I think he could tell. Maybe it was in my sunken posture, or the hospital band still around my wrist. Maybe it was the kind of silence that feels heavier than any sound.
When we pulled up to my apartment, the jasmine bush by the front steps had bloomed. It looked beautiful.
I hated it.
Everything was blooming without me.
I walked up the stairs slowly, every step echoing with the ghost of a future I had once imagined. The hallway smelled like dust and lemon cleaner. My key rattled in the lock before the door clicked open.
Home.
Or what used to feel like it.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
Silence.
No humming fridge. No whirring fan. Just the tick of the wall clock and the thud of my shoes hitting the floor. I dropped my bag. My coat. My strength.
I stood there for a second.
And then I slid down the wall, knees to my chest, arms wrapped around myself like I could hold in the grief.
The walls didn't comfort me.
The photos on the shelf—smiling versions of me and people I used to be—felt like they belonged to someone else. A different Selin. One who still believed in miracles.
Then my phone buzzed.
One notification. A name on the screen.
Alekos Csepel.