Holly

I recognized your name on the recovery chart before I saw your face. Suddenly, I was fourteen again, standing in crowded hallways while you made me the punchline of another joke. I remembered the laughter, the bathroom stalls where I hid until my eyes stopped reddening, and the effort it took to return to class pretending nothing had happened. You'd probably forgotten most of it. I hadn't. Now you lay pale and sweating as the anesthesia wore off. When I approached, you looked at me without recognition. "I'm hurting," you murmured. "I know. Let's get you settled." Once the monitors were connected, I checked your chart. "On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your pain?" "Seven." I documented your answer, verified your medication orders, and prepared the prescribed dose. Your fingers tightened around the blanket as I connected the syringe to your IV. For one quiet moment, I considered letting you hurt. Nobody would know. You'd made me feel helpless for years; now you depended on someone else for relief. Then I remembered the girl I'd been, keeping her face still until she could find somewhere private to fall apart. I remembered how often nobody noticed. I administered the medication. Your fingers loosened, your jaw unclenched, and the crease between your brows eased. You thanked me. I checked the IV line again, concentrating on the familiar task until my expression settled. I hadn't forgiven you. You had been the furnace, not the architect. You'd helped shape me, but you hadn't decided what I'd become. I straightened your blanket, careful not to tug the tubing. You watched me with the exhausted trust people place in strangers when they have no choice. I wondered how long it would take you to recognize me—and what I'd feel if you did. Then I finished my notes and returned to my rounds.