The girl stood on the other side of the railing. There was no doubt in her intention to jump from the bridge…
At the very start of the night shift, the ambulance brought in a young man. His car had collided with an SUV at the intersection. After hours of surgery, the patient was wheeled into intensive care, while the surgeon, Eleanor Whitmore, sat in the staff room jotting down the operation’s details.
“Coffee, Doctor Whitmore,” said the seasoned nurse, Margaret Hayes, placing a mug on the edge of the desk.
“Thank you. Call me when the patient wakes,” Eleanor murmured without looking up.
“Rest while you can. It’s quiet for now.”
“Bad starts like this never bode well,” Eleanor countered.
She called it. Before she could finish her coffee, another patient arrived. By dawn, Eleanor was dead on her feet and dozed off right at the desk, head slumped on paperwork. Then Margaret shook her awake—the crash victim had regained consciousness.
Eleanor could’ve called it a night, let another doctor take over, but she rose and walked to ICU. It wasn’t in her nature to leave without knowing how her patient fared.
The linoleum glistened under fluorescent lights, smooth as a lake’s surface. Eleanor slipped into the room. Yesterday, she hadn’t gotten a proper look at him. Now, under wires and monitors, she saw a striking man. She checked the vitals, then met his gaze.
Even in a hospital bed, he carried an air of arrogance, observing her like she was beneath him. She wished she had half his confidence. It took effort not to look away.
“How are you feeling, Alexander Knight? We had to remove your spleen. You lost a lot of blood. Two ribs are broken, but your lung’s intact. You’ll live—lucky, really. The police called. They’ll question you later. I asked them to wait till you’re steadier.”
“Cheers,” he rasped.
“My shift’s over. See you tomorrow.” Eleanor stepped out.
The ambulance dropping off another patient gave her a lift home. Her ginger cat, Marmalade, wound around her legs, tail high, before trotting to the kitchen. Exhaustion weighed on her, but feeding him came first—otherwise, he’d never let her sleep. She was out before her head hit the pillow.
The next day, the patient looked better, even smiling when she entered.
“You’re doing well. We’ll move you to a ward today, return your phone. You can call family.”
“None in this city. Did I make your night hell?” His gaze still held that maddening superiority. How did he manage it?
“When am I out?” he asked.
“A week, at least. Broken ribs don’t heal overnight. Excuse me—other patients need me.”
Before leaving, she checked his vitals one last time. His smirk sent a chill down her spine. She’d seen that smirk before. She had a good memory for faces but couldn’t place him—only that twist of the lips felt familiar.
That evening, she racked her brain, but nothing surfaced.
Next morning, he was sitting up in bed, wearing a fresh T-shirt.
“A nurse brought it. Mine was bloody,” he said, catching her surprise. “Eleanor Whitmore… I think you want to ask me something.”
“Do we… know each other?”
“Not that I recall. I never forget a beautiful woman. Eyes like yours—I’ve only seen once before. Years ago. Another city. Another life.” He smirked again, then winced—ribs protesting.
“Careful when you move,” she said.
“Will you come back?”
“If the shift’s quiet.”
*What is this? Why does he act like I owe him?*
The next day: “Remember where we met, Doc?”
“Must’ve imagined it.”
“I think we have. Your eyes—I know them.”
“What’s wrong with my eyes?” She didn’t want this talk, but curiosity gnawed.
“Day one, I thought you were tired. Next day, you looked fresh, but your eyes stayed wary, like you’re always braced to bolt.”
“Rubbish. I’m not running anywhere. You’re healing well. I’ll discharge you in three days.”
He started, “Cheers for tha—” but she was already gone.
On discharge day, the nurse handed him paperwork.
“Where’s Dr. Whitmore?”
“Operating.”
He lingered in the hallway, watching the staff room door. When she emerged, he intercepted her.
“Couldn’t wait to leave, yet here you are,” she said, brow arched.
“Avoiding me, Doctor?” No shame. “Had to thank you. You saved my life.”
“Bit dramatic.”
“You operated just in time. I could’ve died. That’s saving someone. Let me thank you properly. Dinner. Maybe then you’ll remember me. Just an hour. No strings.”
“Bold, aren’t you? Fine. I need to freshen up.”
“The Old Winchester. Near your place. Seven o’clock.”
“You know where I live?”
“Is it a secret?”
“You’re terrifying. Easier to agree than argue.” *Absolute tosser.*
He grinned. “You saved my life. I hate debts.”
Post-shift, she showered, styled her hair, applied subtle makeup, then agonized over dresses. Black was her armor—slimming, safe. But not tonight. Pink? No. Blue? Wrong. She tossed them aside, then pulled out an emerald green dress. It matched her eyes. Perfect.
At seven sharp, she entered the restaurant. Live music played. Alexander waved from a corner table, clean-shaven, in a sharp suit—unrecognizable.
“Thought you’d stand me up,” he admitted, admiring her. For once, he didn’t seem smug.
The waiter handed menus. She scanned hers under his gaze. He didn’t bother.
“Had enough of hospital food?” she teased.
“Already memorized the menu,” he said, grinning like a boy proud of a prank.
She closed hers. The waiter materialized.
“Caesar salad. Coffee.”
“Same, plus the steak,” Alexander said, eyes on her.
“Drinks?”
“I’m driving. The lady?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
“Eleanor—unusual name. Father a *Wizard of Oz* fan?”
“Got it in one.”
“My full name’s a mouthful. Annoying to write.”
She laughed.
“Finally, you smile.”
Between courses, silence lingered.
“That dress suits you. You wear dark colors to look slimmer?”
She shot him a look but said nothing.
“Years ago, as a fresher, I was trudging to halls in the rain. June, but freezing. Wind cutting through. I nearly ran across the bridge.”
He paused. “Then I saw her. A girl, on the railing’s far side. No doubt she meant to jump. I said the water was too cold, her bully wasn’t there to see it—what was the point? No trouble at that age was worth dying over.”
Eleanor pushed lettuce around her plate.
“She listened. Couldn’t tell if she cried or if it was rain. Oddly, it worked. I helped her climb back. She almost slipped twice. We went to a café. Bought her coffee. Couldn’t afford one for myself…”
Eleanor set her fork down.
“She told you why she wanted to die,” she finished. “You forgot to mention she was fat. Classmates mocked her. ‘Not even a tornado could lift a house with *fat Ellie* inside!’ ‘Ellie, did you eat an elephant for breakfast?’”
Her voice cracked. “I’d scream at Mum—why did you make me like this?”
Tears welled. “Year Nine, before summer, we camped. Most had paired off. Not me. No one wanted the fat girl. Then a boy asked me to walk by the river. I was so happy…”
She swallowed. “We’d gone far when he ‘accidentally’ shoved me. I reached for him—he stepped back. I slid toward the water. Thought it was a joke, that he’d pull me up, so I didn’t scream. Just clutched the grass, staring. Then I saw his horror—but others came, laughing. He joined in.”
Her knuckles whitened. “Someone stepped on my hands. I let go. Splashed into deep water. I couldn’t swim. They laughed as I thrashed. Gulped mud. A teacher and a parent dragged me out. I vomited filthy water, sobbed for hours. No one was punished. ‘Just an accident.’”
“So you chose the bridge over facing them,” Alexander said softly. “Christ, Ellie… Kids are cruel to anyone different.”
“After you walked me off that bridge, I vowed to become a doctor, lose weight, no matter what. Moved cities for uni. Starved till I fainted in lectures. Lost it all. A professor said pregnancy’d undo it—‘that’s just your body.’”
She exhaled. “I swore off love. Knew I’”And yet, here you are,” she whispered, as his fingers brushed hers across the table, the past and present weaving together like the melody from the restaurant’s piano, fragile yet unbroken.
