Wait for Me
He leaned his back against the rough, cool wall and closed his eyes. It felt like he wouldn’t move from that spot. But after a few minutes, he forced himself to push away and make his way to the doctors’ lounge.
A couple of hours later, he stepped out of the hospital gates. Two strong cups of coffee had chased away the fatigue. Just outside, a narrow tree-lined path led to the main road. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting flickering patterns on the pavement. He couldn’t remember ever walking down this path—he always drove to work. But today, for some reason, he wanted to follow the dance of light on the ground, squinting at the sun. Not like anyone was waiting for him at home.
William walked slowly, enjoying the warmth, the way summer had settled in after the spring storms. The season was halfway over, and soon his holiday would begin. Today, he’d won—snatched a patient from the clutches of the old reaper.
On one of the benches sat a young woman in a pale summer dress. She was bent over a book, strands of auburn hair hiding her face from his view. For some reason, he felt an unbearable urge to see her properly. William reached the bench and stopped.
She turned a page and kept reading, oblivious to him.
“Interesting book?” William asked.
She read on for a moment longer, then closed the book, marking her place with a finger so he could see the cover.
“My Dearest Companion,” he read upside down.
The girl lifted her head. Freckles dotted her face, but they didn’t spoil it—if anything, they gave her charm, a cheeky liveliness. Expressive dark eyes, full lips. Fresh-faced and sweet. “Golden,” he thought, watching her hair glow in the sunlight.
“Interested in medicine, or just the author?” William asked.
“I’ve applied to medical school.”
“Then we’re practically colleagues.” He smiled approvingly and sat beside her.
“You’re a doctor?” Her dark eyes lit up.
“A surgeon.”
“You?” she repeated, surprised.
“What’s so shocking? Don’t I look the part? Or did you expect all surgeons to be grey-haired and grumpy?”
Her full lips curved into a smile.
“What kind of surgeon?”
“Impressive that you know the specialties. I wish I could say plastic—sounds more glamorous. Sadly, I’m just an ordinary one. Someone’s got to remove appendices and gallstones.”
She laughed, a light, pleasant sound.
For some reason, he wanted to impress her, play the role of the experienced, battle-hardened surgeon. So he started talking—how the job lacked the romance books gave it, how the responsibility weighed heavy. A surgeon holds lives in his hands; the operating table is a battlefield with its own tactics. He even mentioned today’s case, embellishing the story with thoughts about the patient’s wife and children waiting anxiously outside.
At first, she watched him warily, then with open admiration. Under her gaze, he felt almost heroic, a man who shaped fates. He knew he was showing off but couldn’t stop himself. He wanted her to like him, this sweet, bright girl.
“You saved someone’s life, and you talk about it so casually?” she asked, serious now.
“It happens every day. Every surgery is a risk. A routine case can turn tragic in an instant.” He turned the question back. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I still have to get in first.” She glanced at her watch and jumped up.
“Oh, I’m late.” Panic flickered in her eyes.
“My car’s parked nearby. Let me drive you.”
On the way, she told him she lived with her Aunt Margaret, her mother’s sister. They had an old spaniel named Biscuit—named by Margaret’s late husband. The aunt had bad legs, so walking Biscuit fell to her, Emily. And Biscuit was old, couldn’t hold it in—if she didn’t take him out on time, there’d be a mess to clean.
“Is she difficult?” William asked.
“Aunt Margaret? No, not at all. She’s kind. Took me in even though she’s got bad knees and high blood pressure.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’ve always lived here. My mum died when I was in Year 6. Her stomach hurt for days, but she wouldn’t go to hospital. I came home from school and found her unconscious on the floor. Called an ambulance. Her appendix had burst—peritonitis. After that, my dad drank. Maybe accidentally, maybe not, but he stepped in front of a bus. So I live with Aunt Margaret now.”
Emily hopped out of the car and ran to the building. At the door, she glanced back. William waved. Then she vanished inside.
Alone in the car, the heroism drained away. He was just a tired, lonely surgeon again. He felt sorry for her. A good girl, determined. So young, yet she’d already weathered so much.
A month later, back from holiday, William walked the ward corridor. A young cleaner mopped the floor, a strand of auburn hair escaping her cap. Something familiar about her made him pause. A patient? Someone’s daughter?
She lifted her head.
“You? Hello.” Her dark eyes lit up—William remembered her, though the name escaped him.
“Hello. I thought you were applying to uni, not working?” he asked, slipping into familiarity. “Or is a relative here?” He recalled she’d lost her parents.
“I got in. Just working until term starts,” she said simply.
“Good call. Medicine’s best learned from the ground up. Maybe you’ll see enough to change your mind. Not aiming for surgery, I hope?”
“We’ll see.” She shrugged, and her name came back to him—Emily.
“Glad to see you.” William walked on, certain she watched him go. His stride was lighter, almost careless after that.
Every time he passed through the ward, he hoped to spot the auburn-haired girl. And when he did, he’d stop to chat.
Once, he found her waiting near the doctors’ lounge.
“Today’s my last shift. Term starts soon,” she said, blushing—her freckles darkening.
“So you’re still set on studying? Let’s celebrate your last day. And your place at uni. Wait for me, alright?”
Emily nodded, smiling, flushing deeper.
Two hours later, William found her in the hospital foyer. She jumped up, cheeks pink again. They left together, not caring who saw. She wasn’t a cleaner anymore—just a student, a future doctor.
They had dinner at a café, then walked along the Thames.
“Will your aunt worry?” William asked.
“She’s visiting a friend in Bath. Biscuit died last week. He was ancient. She left because she couldn’t stop crying—kept hearing his bark.” Emily sighed.
“Come to mine, then. Honestly, my feet are killing me. Ever had French wine? No? That needs fixing.” He felt a rush of nerves—what if she refused?
But she agreed.
“Sorry, the place is a mess,” William warned as they stepped inside. “Make yourself at home—I’ll throw something together.”
He pulled leftover takeaway from the fridge, vegetables for a salad, a bottle of rosé with a pretty label.
“Where’s your wife? On holiday?” Emily asked, half-teasing, stepping into the kitchen.
William rinsed lettuce.
“No, she left me. Got sick of me never being home, even on weekends. Called the ward at night, never believed I was on shift. We fought a lot. At first, it hurt. I’d stay at the hospital for days, slept in the lounge. Then I got used to it. Not divorced yet, though.” He handed her a knife. “Help? I’m useless at this.”
“The meat?” She nodded at the container.
“Takeaway,” he admitted, though for a second he’d considered lying.
They chopped, set the table, brushing hands, laughing to cover nerves. Then wine, food, talking over each other to avoid silence.
When his phone rang, they both froze. William took the call in the other room.
“Emergency,” he said when he returned. “You should sleep. There’s spare bedding. Wait for me.”
A multi-car crash. All hands on deck. William operated through the night. By morning, he hurried home—for the first time in months, someone waited.
He imagined easing the door open, finding Emily asleep, her hair fanned across the pillow. Kissing her warm, sleepy skin… His chest tightened at the thought.
He took the stairs two at a time, too impatient for the lift. The door creaked open. The sound of running water, clinking dishes came from the kitchen.
William toed off his shoes, heading for the noise—she must be making breakfast. Then he stopped in the doorway.
His wife stood there, in her floral robe, blonde hair loose over her shoulders.
She turned and smiled.
“Hello,” Victoria said, as if they’d parted hours ago, not months.
“Hi. WhatWilliam stared at her, the weight of everything—his promises, his hope for Emily, the unborn child—pressing down until all he could say was, “We need to talk,” and closed the door behind him.
