CHAPTER 11 : THE REQUEST
1130 Words
We walked toward his car in silence.
He opened the passenger door for me.
I hesitated for a second.
Was I really about to sit in the same car as the infamous Mr. Vincent?
Quietly, I got in.
The engine came to life, and soon we were moving through the dimly lit streets.
“Where do you live?” he asked, eyes still on the road.
I told him.
Soft music filled the car a moment later — low, almost unnoticeable.
Maybe to ease the silence.
“I didn’t know you could be this quiet,” he said after a while.
I glanced at him, then looked away.
“I usually act… a little crazy around you,” I admitted softly. “I just wanted to act different.”
“You didn’t act crazy,” he replied.
I blinked.
“…Maybe a little,” he added, a hint of teasing in his voice.
A small groan escaped me.
He smiled.
And for some reason… that smile stayed with me longer than it should have.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
The car fell silent again.
“I didn’t do anything,” he replied just as softly.
“You did,” I whispered — just loud enough for him to hear.
He let out a small breath, almost like a quiet chuckle.
“Is your voice always this soft,” he asked, “or is this how you talk to yourself?”
“I’m whispering so you can hear,” I murmured, a faint smile forming.
Another smile touched his lips.
And I found myself staring.
Was he always like this…?
Or was tonight different?
We pulled up in front of my apartment.
“Thank you, Mr. Vincent,” I said as I stepped out.
He gave a small nod… and drove off.
I turned toward the building—
Then froze.
His jacket was still around my shoulders.
I turned back quickly, but his car had already disappeared into the night.
I stood there under the dim light, watching the fading red glow of his taillights until it vanished completely.
Slowly, I looked down at the jacket.
“I’ll have to return this…” I murmured.
Inside my apartment, I stood in front of the mirror.
The jacket swallowed me whole, falling past my knees like a dress.
A soft laugh escaped me.
“This could actually pass for a gown,” I said, turning slightly.
The night no longer felt suffocating.
Clutching the fabric closer, breathing in the faint trace of his cologne, I realized something had shifted.
The grief was still there.
But so was something else.
Warmth.
And for the first time since leaving the hospital…
I felt like I could breathe again.
The Next Morning
The hospital felt different.
Colder.
The usual sterile scent of antiseptic felt sharper today — almost unbearable.
As I walked down the corridor, my eyes drifted toward her room.
The door was open.
My steps slowed.
The bed had been stripped bare.
No bright blankets.
No stuffed toys.
No sketchbook.
Just an empty mattress under harsh sunlight.
She was gone.
It looked… abandoned.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to keep walking.
The elevator doors slid open.
And the hallway quieted almost instantly.
He stepped out.
White coat crisp. Expression composed.
Every inch the “Cold Surgeon” everyone whispered about.
But when his eyes met mine—
Just for a second—
The mask slipped.
And I saw him.
Not the surgeon.
But the man from last night.
The one who understood helplessness.
The one who stood beside me in silence.
I gave a small nod.
He returned it — barely noticeable — before walking past me into his office.
I waited.
Until I had a reason.
A professional one.
Then I picked up a report and walked to his door.
I knocked.
“Come in.”
His voice had returned to its usual calm, controlled tone.
I stepped inside, presenting the report while keeping my expression steady. He listened carefully, asking a few precise questions.
Work.
Safe. Familiar.
When I finished, silence settled between us.
I placed the bag on his desk.
“Sir… your jacket. And thank you. For last night.”
Our fingers brushed as he took it.
Just briefly.
But it sent a quiet warmth through me.
He glanced inside, noticing the careful fold.
“You didn’t have to wash and iron it,” he said.
“I wanted to,” I replied softly. “It mattered to me.”
Something in his expression softened — just slightly.
I turned to leave.
“Wait.”
His voice stopped me.
Not sharp.
Gentle.
He opened his drawer and pulled out a worn sketchbook.
“Your patient asked me to give this to you before she left.”
My chest tightened.
I stepped forward and took it.
The first page made my breath catch.
A drawing of me.
Big eyes. Slightly exaggerated… but unmistakably me.
Underneath, in careful handwriting:
Aunt Juliet, how are you? I know your eyes are swollen from crying. I’m glad you cried for me. You always try to be perfect… but I like you better when you’re human.
A laugh broke through my tears.
I turned the page.
Another drawing — the two of us sitting close, like we were sharing secrets.
Her words followed.
You were my light in this gray hospital…
My vision blurred.
Page after page… each one heavier than the last.
Until—
I froze.
A drawing of Vincent… and me.
Standing far too close.
Our eyes locked in a way that made my face burn.
I quickly tried to turn the page—
He chuckled.
Actually chuckled.
Low. Warm. Rare.
“It’s no use hiding it,” he said lightly. “She made me stand by the window for thirty minutes so she could get my jawline right.”
Despite everything… I laughed.
“So you cooperated?” I said, wiping my tears. “You should have told her to fix my nose too.”
He smiled.
I turned to the final page.
All of us.
Holding hands.
Her parents. Her. Him. Me.
I love you all.
That was it.
My vision blurred completely.
A handkerchief appeared in front of me.
I took it quietly.
“Juliet.”
I looked up.
“I’ve been reviewing her case,” he said slowly. “And I found… a possible way to help her.”
My heart stopped.
“We can treat her,” he continued. “It could give her more time… without pain. If it works.”
“Really?” I breathed.
He nodded.
And something inside me broke loose.
Before I could think—
Before I could stop myself—
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him.
- Writer
