I call it Tuesday

I finished Bradley Ramsey's final October prompt 3 days late🫣 Took me a while to decide on a topic. I wanted to try something different but I couldn't get it right, so I went back to what I know ➡️Weirdos. It's got that YOU vibe I love (the show, not the book).

The End. That’s what you called it.

HR called it a boundary failure.

Security called it an incident.

Psych called it delusional fixation, mild to moderate.

I call it Tuesday.

We met on nights. You were the new attending. Sharp voice, steady hands, beautiful half-asleep eyes. I was the nurse who already knew where everything was. You said “good catch” once when I handed you a chart you hadn’t asked for yet. I liked that you said it like you meant it. I wrote it down.

Apparently that’s “tracking behaviour.” I call it building a timeline of us, even if you haven't labelled it that yet.

You drink coffee black at two, with milk at four. You always forget to finish it. I do that part for you. It's teamwork. Every couple has their thing.

HR asked me if I understood power imbalance.

Of course. You’re the doctor, I’m the nurse, and somehow I’m the one doing emotional labour. That’s imbalance.

We never dated, but that’s not unusual.

Plenty of great partnerships start before a word is said. You fixed my name badge once without thinking, straightened it, smoothed the edge of my collar. You don’t touch people you plan to forget.

You said you were selling your mother’s house.

I offered to help with boxes, labelling, whatever.

You said, “That’s kind.” Kind.

I liked that word from your lips. It sounded like praise.

Later someone asked why I was there after hours.

I said, “Because kindness doesn't end just because the shift is over.”

They wrote poor boundaries in the report. I wrote acts of service.

They say I memorised your schedule. They call me obsessive. I call it consistent.

They say I followed you to the parking lot. I call it escorting.

It’s all branding, really.

The funny thing about being labelled delusional is that it’s the only diagnosis you can’t argue with. You disagree and it proves them right. Smart system.

When Psych told me I was “externalising need,” I said, “So are you. Right now.” He didn’t appreciate that. No one in that department likes the truth.

You always left little pieces of yourself behind, so I made sure the world didn’t throw them away.

A tissue folded on the counter in the med room, a gum wrapper from the vending machine when you couldn’t decide between mint and cinnamon.

A sticky note with half a list: labs, call back, discharge, sleep.

To you it was litter, to me it was proof that you existed where I did.

They say keeping it is pathological, I say it’s sentimental.

People who can’t commit call everything obsessive.

You moved to days. Rotation, you said. Not personal.

That’s what everyone says when it’s personal.

I adjusted.

I kept your chair where you like it when you cover nights.

I oiled your locker hinge because squeaks bother you.

Apparently doing both counts as stalking.

Then the meeting.

Three administrators, one psychologist, a security guard with a moustache.

They told me you felt unsafe.

I said, “That surprises me. She’s very capable.”

They said this wasn’t a compliment.

I said, “Then you’re misinterpreting tone.”

They said, “You’re not hearing us.”

I said, “You’re not hearing her.”

They said, “She’s not here.”

I said, “Exactly.”

And that, apparently, was the wrong answer.

You remember the stairs. Third step, the one that always squeaks. You had that box in your arms and said you didn't need help. You missed your footing. I caught your ankle before gravity could. I saved you. They called it contact. Funny how language divides heroes and hazards.

After that, they reassigned me.

Different floor, same building.

Fewer windows.

I still keep the rooms ready for you when you float down.

Soap filled.

Chairs straight.

Monitors wiped.

You like clean surfaces, I remember.

They tell me remembering is “rumination.”

They also tell me forgetting is “avoidance.”

There’s no pleasing paperwork.

I still stop by the vending machine sometimes.

Your gum wrapper is in the box with the tissue and the sticky note.

I labelled it shared moments.

HR would faint if they knew, which is why I don’t tell them.

That’s called insight. 😉

They moved you to another hospital.

Good for you.

I’m proud.

Not everyone gets promoted because of me.

People ask if I regret anything.

Of course not.

If I start regretting, they’ll call that denial.

If I don’t, they’ll call it lack of empathy.

So I stay consistent.

That’s what love is. Consistency.

You once said, “It’s not normal to notice everything.”

You were tired.

You were wrong.

Someone has to keep track.

Otherwise you would blur, and I can't let that happen.

If you ever read this, don’t worry.

You’re safe.

Everyone keeps saying that like it's something new. I kept you safe before anyone else cared to.

You called it The End.

I call it cliffhanger.

You call that denial.

See? We still finish each other’s sentences.