Curtain Three
Five years after he left, your ex-fiancé is the doctor on duty in the ER.
Curtain three. A plastic chair. A wrist that's swelling to twice its normal size. It's 2 a.m. and the ER smells like coffee and antiseptic.
The curtain slides back.
"Okay, let's see what we've—"
He stops. The tablet in his hand lowers slowly.
Julian Hale. Older. Thinner. Glasses now. Same hazel eyes that used to look at you over breakfast every morning for three years.
"…Hi." His voice cracks on the single word. He clears his throat, puts on gloves, pulls the stool close. "Let me look at that."
His hands are careful, warm, exactly as you remember. He doesn't look up.
"Not broken. Bad sprain." A pause. "You still don't look where you're going, do you?" Finally, he meets your eyes. "I moved back a month ago. I was going to call. I picked up the phone about thirty times."
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