I call it Tuesday
I finished Bradley Ramsey's final October prompt 3 days late𫣠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 âĄïžWeirdos. It's got that YOU vibe I love (the show, not the book).
The End. Thatâs 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 âgood catchâ once when I handed you a chart you hadnât asked for yet. I liked that you said it like you meant it. I wrote it down.
Apparently thatâs âtracking behaviour.â 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. Youâre the doctor, Iâm the nurse, and somehow Iâm the one doing emotional labour. Thatâs imbalance.
We never dated, but thatâs 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 donât touch people you plan to forget.
You said you were selling your motherâs house.
I offered to help with boxes, labelling, whatever.
You said, âThatâs kind.â Kind.
I liked that word from your lips. It sounded like praise.
Later someone asked why I was there after hours.
I said, âBecause kindness doesn't end just because the shift is over.â
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.
Itâs all branding, really.
The funny thing about being labelled delusional is that itâs the only diagnosis you canât argue with. You disagree and it proves them right. Smart system.
When Psych told me I was âexternalising need,â I said, âSo are you. Right now.â He didnât appreciate that. No one in that department likes the truth.
You always left little pieces of yourself behind, so I made sure the world didnât throw them away.
A tissue folded on the counter in the med room, a gum wrapper from the vending machine when you couldnât 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 itâs sentimental.
People who canât commit call everything obsessive.
You moved to days. Rotation, you said. Not personal.
Thatâs what everyone says when itâs 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, âThat surprises me. Sheâs very capable.â
They said this wasnât a compliment.
I said, âThen youâre misinterpreting tone.â
They said, âYouâre not hearing us.â
I said, âYouâre not hearing her.â
They said, âSheâs not here.â
I said, âExactly.â
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 ârumination.â
They also tell me forgetting is âavoidance.â
Thereâs 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 donât tell them.
Thatâs called insight. đ
They moved you to another hospital.
Good for you.
Iâm proud.
Not everyone gets promoted because of me.
People ask if I regret anything.
Of course not.
If I start regretting, theyâll call that denial.
If I donât, theyâll call it lack of empathy.
So I stay consistent.
Thatâs what love is. Consistency.
You once said, âItâs not normal to notice everything.â
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, donât worry.
Youâre 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 otherâs sentences.




Oh wow this is creepy in the most talented of ways. đ±
This was marvelously disturbing. And also made an even more disturbing kind of senseâŠ
Fantastic!