Airspace

Grounded

The morning light didn't ask for permission when it slid across your face.

It crept through the sheer white curtains you never bothered to replace, filtered by a sky too bright for someone who hadn't slept as much as she claimed. The digital clock on your bedside table blinked 6:07 a.m.—not that you needed it. Your body knew the drill. Your life, like your medicine, worked on routine.

You didn't sigh when you woke up. You never sighed. You simply opened your eyes, blinked once, and moved.

Out of bed.

Into the silence.

The floor was cold. You liked it that way.

Your apartment was spotless, quiet, unbothered by the chaos of other people. There were no keys quejándose sobre la mesa, no platos por lavar, no ropa olvidada en el respaldo del sillón. Just you. Just the soft hum of your filtered air system and the sharp order of a life lived alone. Books—stacked by topic, not color—lined the wall beneath your windows. Medical journals. Surgical case studies. Three plush toys sat neatly on the corner shelf. Not yours. You didn't believe in cute things. But your patients left them. And you didn't throw them out.

You brushed your teeth in silence. You tied your hair without thinking. The scrub top you chose was a soft, pale blue—no patterns, no designs. You didn't believe in using your clothes to make statements. You made them in the OR.

In the kitchen, your phone buzzed once.

You didn't look at it immediately. You poured your coffee first. Oat milk. One spoon of honey. The same as every morning. You opened your fridge, pulled out a small bowl of chopped fruit you'd prepared last night, and sat at your bar-style kitchen island, fork in hand, eyes still half-lidded with sleep but brain already scanning the day ahead.

Then you glanced at your phone.

Mom:

The barbecue is in two weeks. I'm going to invite some friends' kids, okay? You'll like some of them. You can't stay alone forever, my love.

Your jaw didn't clench. You'd trained yourself out of that. But you put the phone down without responding.

You chewed. Slowly.

You never ate fast.

You had read somewhere—ironically, in a children's psychology book—that how you eat reflects how you approach life. You didn't gulp. You didn't chase. You didn't spill. You calculated every bite, every calorie, every hour.

When you finished breakfast, you wiped down the counter twice. Not because it was dirty. But because you liked the feeling of control.

Then you grabbed your bag.

White coat. Clipboard. ID badge already clipped to your front pocket.

You locked the door behind you, took the elevator down, and stepped into the gentle chaos of the city you served. The streets were already filled with noise and bodies, people rushing to lives you didn't want.

You didn't wave at anyone. No one waved at you.

But that was fine.

You weren't looking for connection.

You were headed toward purpose. Toward precision. Toward the place where children still needed you.

Saint Eustace Medical waited, a beacon of clean hallways and sharp fluorescent light. You slipped through the back entrance like a ghost in scrubs.

You stepped into the hospital like you owned it.

But not in the way Riley did.

She made an entrance—heels clicking even in her surgical boots, ponytail bouncing, lip gloss suspiciously perfect for a woman about to slice into someone's face. You? You just walked. Quietly. Efficiently. The automatic doors of Saint Eustace Medical whispered open at your presence, and that was enough.