**Wait for Me**
He leaned his back against the rough, cool wall and closed his eyes. For a moment, it felt impossible to move. But after a few minutes, he forced himself away from the support and made his way to the doctors’ lounge.
A couple of hours later, he stepped out of the hospital gates. Two strong coffees had chased away the fatigue. A small tree-lined path led straight from the entrance to the main road. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shimmering patterns on the pavement. He couldn’t recall ever walking down this path—he always drove to work. Today, though, the dance of light and shadow called to him. After all, no one was waiting for him at home.
Victor strolled slowly, savouring the warmth of the sun and the memory of summer storms. The season had peaked, and his holiday was just around the corner. Today, he had won—snatched another life back from the clutches of old Grim Reaper herself.
On one of the benches sat a young woman in a pale sundress, lost in a book. A few coppery strands of hair hid her face from view. Something tugged at him—he had to see her face. He reached the bench and stopped.
She turned a page, oblivious to his presence.
“Good book?” Victor asked.
She kept reading for a few more seconds before closing it, marking her place with a finger so he could see the cover.
*My Dear Fellow Human*, he read upside down.
The girl looked up. A face full of freckles, but instead of spoiling her looks, they gave her a cheeky charm. Dark, expressive eyes, full lips. Fresh-faced and sweet. *Golden*, he thought, watching the sunlight set her hair aflame.
“Medical interest, or just a fan of the author?” he asked.
“Applied to medical school.”
“Then we’re practically colleagues.” Victor smiled and sat beside her.
“You’re a doctor?” Her dark eyes sparked with interest.
“Surgeon.”
“You?” She blinked in disbelief.
“Surprised? Don’t I look the part? Or did you expect all surgeons to be silver-haired and monosyllabic?”
Her lips curved into a smile. “What kind of surgeon?”
“Impressive—you know the specialties. Wish I could say ‘plastic’—sounds more glamorous, doesn’t it? Alas, I’m just an ordinary cutter. Someone’s got to remove appendixes and gallstones.”
She laughed, a bright, musical sound.
For some reason, he wanted to impress her—paint himself as some battle-hardened veteran of the operating theatre. So he launched into a speech about how the job lacked the romance of books. The crushing responsibility. A surgeon’s table was a battlefield, with its own tactics and strategies. He even mentioned today’s case, embellishing the story with thoughts of the patient’s anxious family.
At first, she watched him warily, but soon her eyes shone with admiration. Under her gaze, he felt like a hero, a lifesaver. He knew he was laying it on thick, but he couldn’t help himself. He wanted her to like him.
“You saved a life and you just… talk about it like that?”
“Happens all the time. Every operation’s a gamble. Even a routine case can go wrong.” He changed the subject. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”
“Haven’t decided yet. Got to get in first.” She checked her wristwatch and bolted up. “Oh no—I’m late!” Panic flickered in her eyes.
“My car’s just outside. I’ll drive you.”
On the way, she explained she lived with her Aunt Agatha, her mother’s sister. There was an elderly spaniel named Whisky—her late uncle’s naming choice. Aunt Agatha had bad knees, so walking Whisky fell to her. And since Whisky was ancient and couldn’t hold it in, disaster loomed if he wasn’t taken out on time.
“Grumpy, is she?” Victor asked.
“Aunt Agatha? No, she’s lovely. She took me in even though she’s got her own troubles.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“I’ve always lived here. Mum died when I was in Year Six. She’d had stomach pains for days but wouldn’t go to hospital. I came home from school and found her unconscious on the floor. Called an ambulance. Appendicitis had burst—peritonitis. Dad started drinking after. Then he stepped in front of a bus. So, Aunt Agatha.”
She darted out of the car and up the steps, turning once to wave. Victor waved back before she vanished inside.
Alone, the heroics faded. He was just a tired, lonely surgeon again. He felt for her. A good girl. Driven. So young, yet life had already thrown her curveballs.
A month later, back from holiday, Victor walked the ward corridor. A young cleaner mopped the floor, a lock of ginger hair escaping her cap. Something about her seemed familiar. A former patient? A relative?
She looked up.
“You? Hello.” Her dark eyes lit up with recognition. He remembered her, though her name escaped him.
“Hello. Didn’t you say you were going to uni, not working? Or is someone here?”
“Got in. Just earning a bit before term starts.”
“Smart. Medicine’s best learned from the ground up. Maybe it’ll put you off being a doctor altogether. Not a surgeon, surely?”
She shrugged. *Emily*, he remembered.
“Good to see you.” He walked off, certain she was watching him. His stride became lighter, almost cocky.
Every time he passed through the ward, he hoped to spot her. When he did, he’d stop to chat.
One day, he found her waiting outside the doctors’ lounge.
“Last shift today. Term starts soon,” she said, blushing—her freckles darkening.
“Not changed your mind, then? Let’s celebrate. Your last day *and* getting in. Wait for me, yeah?”
She nodded, grinning, redder than ever.
Two hours later, he found her in the hospital lobby. She sprang up, flushing again. They left together, uncaring who saw. She wasn’t a cleaner anymore—she was a student. A future doctor.
Dinner at a café, then a stroll along the Thames.
“Not in a hurry? What about Aunt Agatha?”
“Gone to visit a friend in Bath. And Whisky… died last week. He was old. Aunt Agatha couldn’t bear the quiet—kept hearing his barks.” Emily sighed.
“Come back to mine, then. My feet are killing me. Ever tried French wine?”
She hadn’t.
“That’s an oversight we’ll fix,” he said, suddenly nervous of refusal.
But she agreed.
“Sorry, wasn’t expecting company. Place is a mess,” he warned, stepping inside. “Make yourself at home. I’ll figure out dinner.”
He scavenged leftovers—posh takeaway from yesterday, salad fixings, a bottle of rosé with a fancy label.
“Where’s your wife? On holiday?” she asked, stepping into the kitchen with a teasing smirk.
Victor washed vegetables.
“Gone. Got sick of me never being home, even on weekends. Used to call the ward at night, convinced I was lying about shifts. We fought a lot. Took me ages to stop moping. Lived at the hospital for weeks. But—well. Not divorced yet.” He handed her a knife. “Help? I’m hopeless.”
“The meat?” She eyed the container.
“Takeaway,” he admitted.
They chopped and laughed, shoulders brushing, filling silences with chatter. Then wine, food, stories—both talking too fast, afraid of pauses.
His phone rang. They froze.
Victor stepped out to take the call.
“Emergency,” he said, returning. “Go to bed—linen’s in the cupboard. Wait for me.”
A multi-vehicle crash. All hands on deck. He operated through the night. By morning, for the first time in months, he rushed home. Emily would be there.
He imagined easing the door open, finding her asleep, her hair fanned across the pillow. Kissing her warm, sleep-soft cheek… His heart hammered at the thought.
He took the stairs two at a time, too impatient for the lift. The door creaked open. The clatter of dishes came from the kitchen.
Kicking off his shoes, he hurried in, expecting breakfast. Then he stopped dead.
His wife stood at the sink, her floral dressing gown cinched tight, blonde hair tumbling loose.
She turned and smiled.
“Hi,” Victoria said, as though they’d parted hours, not months, ago.
“Hi. What are you doing here?” Stupid question.
“Pancakes. You must be starving. What happened? The night call?”
“How did you know?” He scanned the room for signs of Emily.
“Looking for someone?”
“No, but—”
“She’s gone,” Victoria said, meeting his eyes. “Don’t worry, I was civil. Isn’t she a bit young for you?”
“Why are you here?” He barely kept**”Then, stepping back into the silent flat, he realised no one would ever wait for him again.”**
