15

                                    

                                          
I walk into the break room, exhausted from the morning shift, and head straight for the coffee machine. The nurses are gathered around the table, deep in conversation, but I'm too tired to pay attention. I grab a cup and fill it with coffee, hoping the caffeine will get me through the rest of the day.
As I'm stirring in some sugar, Clara spots me. "Jane! You're just in time," she says, her voice full of excitement. I glance over my shoulder, and she's grinning, waving an envelope in the air.
I raise an eyebrow. "What's that?"
Clara practically jumps up from her seat. "You'll never guess. We're all invited to dr Rochefort's wedding!" She tears open the envelope, the room buzzing with laughter and chatter. The nurses are all leaning in, talking about how grand the wedding is going to be, where it's happening, how amazing it must be to get an invite.
My heart stops. The spoon slips from my hand, clattering into my cup. I can feel my chest tightening, my breath catching in my throat. Miles' wedding.
"Jane, come check this out, they're getting married next week!" Clara waves the invitation in my face, her smile wide. "It's at this luxurious venue —so fancy!"
I try to smile, but it feels tight, forced. My hands tremble as I grip the edge of the counter, pretending to be focused on my coffee. My mind is spinning, my pulse racing, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.
Yasmin, sitting at the table, looks up and notices. "Jane? You okay? You look... off."
I nod quickly, trying to push the feeling down. "I'm fine," I mutter, but my voice is shaky. I grab my cup, avoiding eye contact, hoping they'll drop it.
Gracie frowns, setting down her fork. "You sure? You look kind of pale."
I swallow hard, barely able to speak. "I... I think I'm just not feeling well." My words come out in a rush, anything to get me out of there before I break down in front of them.
Clara's smile fades, her brow furrowing. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," I manage to say, forcing a weak smile. "I think I just need to lie down."
Before anyone can ask more questions, I turn and leave the room, walking as fast as I can without running. My chest feels like it's going to burst, my hands trembling as I push the door open and step into the hallway. I lean against the wall, the tears I've been holding back finally spilling over, silent but heavy, as I try to catch my breath.
On the metro ride home, I try to hold it together, but the moment the train rattles to life, the tears start falling. It's quiet at first, just a few drops rolling down my cheeks, but then it hits me like a wave, and I'm suddenly balling my eyes out, unable to stop. People glance my way, but I don't care. It feels like the world's crashing down on me, and there's nothing I can do to hold it back.
By the time I step off the train and start walking home, the tears haven't let up. I cry all the way, choking back sobs as I pass strangers on the street, my body shaking with every step. By the time I reach my apartment, I feel empty, hollow. I throw my bag on the floor, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto my bed. And then I cry more—deep, gut-wrenching sobs that leave me exhausted, like I'm pouring every ounce of pain I've held inside out into the pillow.
Eventually, the tears stop, but I feel shattered, lying there, staring at the ceiling until sleep finally takes over.
The next morning, I wake up nauseous, my head spinning the moment I sit up. My stomach churns violently, and I barely make it to the bathroom before I throw up. The sickness lingers, and I feel lightheaded, unsteady. Thank God it's Saturday, and I don't have to be at work. I crawl back into bed, hoping the nausea will pass, but it doesn't. I spend the entire day lying there, barely moving, but I still end up rushing to the bathroom over five times to throw up.
By late afternoon, I'm drained, staring blankly at the ceiling when my phone buzzes. It's Miles. He wants to meet on Sunday. I hesitate for a second, wondering if I'm even well enough, but I say yes anyway. I don't know how to say no to him.
Sunday comes, and I arrive at the address he gave me—a lovely bungalow, tucked away and quiet. I'm still feeling weak, but I pull myself together. When I step inside, Miles is waiting, smiling like everything is normal. He's set up dinner, candles flickering in the soft light, and for a moment, I forget everything else. We eat, talk, pretend things are simple. But deep down, I know they're not.
Later, we're lying in bed, the dinner long forgotten. I turn to him, the question that's been gnawing at me for days finally slipping out. "What are we going to do after you're married?" My voice is soft, but the weight of the question is heavy between us.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he leans in and kisses me, slow and tender, as if that's enough to make the question disappear. And for a moment, I let it. I close my eyes and fall asleep beside him, pretending the world outside doesn't exist.
But then, out of nowhere, the nausea hits again, sharp and sudden. I wake up, feeling my stomach twist, and rush to the bathroom. I barely make it before I'm hunched over, throwing up again. When I finally straighten up, exhausted and shaky, I glance at the clock. It's 4 a.m. Fuck I have work tomorrow. 
I wonder why I've been so sick lately. Something's off, but I can't put my finger on it. My mind races with possibilities, but I push them away.
Just then, Miles walks in, his face etched with concern. "Are you alright?" he asks softly.
I nod, wiping my face. "It's probably just indigestion or something," I lie, forcing a smile. I don't want him to worry. Not about this.
He doesn't push. He just pulls me close, and we go back to bed, pretending everything's fine.
The next morning, we linger together until we both have to leave for work. And just like every other time, we part ways and slip back into our roles, pretending to be strangers once more.