Funny how some people read your words like they’re just words… and others? They feel like you wrote them into the spaces between.
He held her hand like it mattered.
Not clinically.
Not professionally.
But like someone who’s been human longer than he’s been a doctor.
The drugs were ready.
The mask was near.
And still—he paused.
Fingers resting like a whispered prayer
on a wrist that didn’t yet know it was letting go.
No one saw.
Except me.
Noticed the way he wrapped silence around her like a blanket
before the propofol did its job.
Before the laryngoscope caught the light.
Before she became just another number on a list.
His hand stayed until the first breath passed through the tube,
and even then—
he lingered.
Like leaving meant surrendering something sacred.
He doesn’t touch often.
Doesn’t linger.
He stands like protocol,
moves like precision.
But today, he held a stranger
like he was holding back the weight of the world.
I don’t think she’ll remember.
But I will.
Not the case.
Not the airway.
But the quiet way he told her—
without a single word—
“I’ve got you.”
And for one second,
in that cold room,
medicine remembered what mercy looks like.
Perfect!
When raw emotions collide, perfection is born. Thank you. It means a lot.