“Kind of. Just flashes. Machines beeping, my mom crying, this scar.” He brushed his cheek. “I know there was a crash. That I almost died. I know a surgeon saved me.”
“That was me,” I said softly.
His eyes widened. “What?!”
“I was the attending that night. I opened your chest. It was one of my first solo operations.”
He stared, speechless.
“What?!”
“My mom always said we were lucky. That the right doctor was there.”
“She didn’t tell you we went to high school together?”
His eyes grew even wider. “Wait… Are you that Mark? Her Mark?”
“Guilty,” I said.
He let out a strained laugh.
“She never told me that part,” he admitted. “Just that there was a good surgeon. That we owed him everything.”
He sat in silence for a while.
He let out a strained laugh.
“I spent years hating this,” he finally said, touching the scar. “Kids teased me. My dad left, and Mom never dated again. I blamed the crash. I blamed the scar. Sometimes I even blamed the surgeons. Like… if I hadn’t survived, maybe none of the bad things would’ve happened.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He nodded.
“But today? When I thought I was about to lose her?” He swallowed hard. “I would’ve endured it all again. Every surgery, every insult, just to keep her alive.”
He swallowed.
“That’s what love does,” I said. “It makes the pain worth it.”
He rose and pulled me into a hug! Tight.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “For back then. For today. For everything.”
I hugged him back.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “You and your mom — you’re fighters.”
I hugged him back.
Emily remained in the ICU for some time. I visited her every day. When she finally opened her eyes after a light sleep, I was standing beside her bed.
“Hey, Em,” I said.
She offered a faint smile. “Either I’m officially dead,” she rasped, “or God has a very twisted sense of humor.”
“You’re alive,” I said. “Very much so.”
“Ethan told me what happened. That you were his surgeon… and now mine.”
I nodded.
She reached out and laced her fingers through mine.
“You didn’t have to save me,” she said.
“Of course I did,” I answered. “You collapsed outside my hospital again. What was I supposed to do?”
She chuckled, then winced. “Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “It hurts to breathe.”
“You’ve always been dramatic.”
“And you’ve always been stubborn.”
“It hurts to breathe.”
We sat quietly for a while, the steady rhythm of monitors filling the room.
“Mark,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“When I’m better… would you want to get coffee sometime? Somewhere that doesn’t smell like disinfectant?”
I smiled. “I’d like that.”
She gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t disappear this time.”
“I won’t.”
“I’d like that.”
She was discharged three weeks later. The following morning, she texted me: “Stationary bikes are the devil. Plus, the new cardiologist said I have to avoid coffee. He’s a monster.”
I replied: “When you’re cleared, first round’s on me.
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