CHAPTER 7 : BETWEEN HOPE AND FEAR
1384 Words
I didn’t know whether I should feel nervous or excited—but deep down, happiness bloomed quietly in my chest. I was finally going to enter the operating room. Not just as an observer. Not just as an intern running errands.
I would be assisting.
And not just with anyone.
I would be working alongside one of the best surgeons in the hospital.
The thought alone made my pulse quicken.
A notification appeared on my phone.
An email.
Appointment Confirmation: Assistant Nurse to Dr. Vincent.
I stared at the screen for a moment before a smile spread across my face—slow, uncontrollable, real.
This was it.
Moments later, the head nurse called me into her office. I knocked, still wearing that ridiculous smile I couldn’t seem to suppress.
She looked at me over her glasses, amused.
“It seems you’ve received the email,” she said knowingly. “I can see how happy you are.”
“Yes, ma,” I replied softly, trying to compose myself.
“I hope you work hard and live up to this opportunity. Assisting him is not something given lightly.”
“I understand. Thank you, ma.”
She nodded once.
“You’ll need to report to Mr. Vincent’s office. He’ll assign your duties and explain how you’ll work together.”
“Yes, ma. Thank you.”
As I stepped out, my heartbeat grew louder in my ears.
I walked toward his office, each step feeling heavier and lighter at the same time. I knocked.
“Come in.”
I entered with a bright, professional smile.
“Your assistant is here,” I said lightly.
He looked up from his desk—and smirked.
“Nice to meet you, Assistant,” Vincent replied calmly. “I hope we work well together.”
There it was again. That composed confidence. That subtle teasing tone that made it hard to tell whether he was serious or amused.
He picked up several files from his desk and handed them to me.
“These are the patients scheduled for upcoming surgeries. You’ll be responsible for monitoring their vitals, preparing pre-op reports, and overseeing post-op recovery.”
I accepted the files carefully, the weight of responsibility settling over me. I flipped through them, focusing.
Then his tone shifted.
“There’s a fifteen-year-old girl among them,” he added, his voice quieter now. “She has a brain tumor. We’ll be operating soon, but her condition is deteriorating daily. I’m not confident she’ll hold on—even after surgery.”
My chest tightened.
I paused on her file, my eyes lingering on the small ID photo clipped to the corner. She looked so young. Too young.
“Didn’t her parents find out in time?” I asked gently.
“They did,” he said. “But they were afraid. Afraid of the risks. Afraid of losing her on the operating table. By the time they agreed, the tumor had already progressed.”
I swallowed.
“I understand their fear,” I murmured. “No parent wants to gamble with their child’s life.”
He nodded once.
“Monitor her closely,” he said.
“I will, sir.”
When I left his office, her file felt heavier than the others.
That afternoon, I visited her room for the first time.
She smiled at me.
And somehow, that made everything worse.
The next day, my duties officially began.
I checked patients. I updated charts. I assisted in operating rooms where time seemed to stretch endlessly. Some surgeries lasted six, sometimes eight hours. My legs ached. My shoulders burned.
But I felt alive.
This was where I belonged.
And somewhere between routine checkups and IV changes, the young girl and I grew close.
She was brighter than her diagnosis. Stronger than her fragile body suggested. Whenever she saw me, she would wave dramatically and call out,
“Aunt Juliet!”
I always pretended to be offended.
“Aunt? I’m not that old!”
She would laugh, the sound soft but genuine.
We shared stories. She told me about school, about the boy she once liked, about how she wanted to dye her hair purple one day. I told her about hospital gossip—carefully edited, of course.
Sometimes, we even joked about Mr. Vincent.
And he definitely knew.
One afternoon, I walked into her room cheerfully.
“I’m here.”
She sat up immediately, wincing slightly but smiling anyway.
“How are you feeling today?” I asked.
“It hurts,” she admitted honestly. “But I can manage.”
My heart cracked quietly, but I smiled so she wouldn’t see it.
“You’re strong,” I told her. “I knew that from the first day I met you.”
She grinned.
“My D-day is coming soon, right?”
I nodded gently.
“Yes.”
We both knew what she meant.
The day of the surgery.
She looked down at her hands.
“I’m nervous.”
I pulled a chair closer and held her hand.
“You don’t have to be afraid. You’ll be operated on by one of the best surgeons in the world. He trained abroad. He’s handled cases even more complex than this.”
She smirked.
“You praise him every time he’s mentioned. Just like he praises you.”
“I do not,” I protested.
She giggled.
“Mr. Vincent cares about you. You just can’t see it yet.”
“He cares about all the nurses,” I replied quickly. “That’s why he’s respected.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically and leaned back.
“You two would look good together.”
I laughed awkwardly.
“Yes. As colleagues trying to become the best in our fields.”
She stared at me like I was hopeless.
Then she suddenly leaned closer and whispered,
“Soon you’ll hear… ‘Hello there.’”
“What?” I asked in confusion
Then—
“Hello there.”
I froze.
Slowly, I turned.
Vincent stood at the doorway, one brow slightly raised.
The girl burst into laughter. I couldn’t help it—I laughed too.
“Are you two discussing me again?” he asked dryly.
“Never,” I said, standing up quickly. “I’ll go check on another patient.”
“Alright,” he replied calmly. “Meet me later.”
As I walked out, I met the girl’s eyes. She gave me a triumphant look.
I waved at her, but my heart felt warm.
Too warm.
Later, I went to his office as requested.
This time, he wasn’t smirking.
He looked serious.
“We’re moving her surgery,” he said.
My breath caught.
“Instead of next week, we’ll operate in two days.”
I froze.
Then hope rushed in.
“So… that means we still have a chance?” I asked, barely steady.
“Yes,” he replied. “If we wait any longer, it may be too late. I’d rather operate while we still have something to fight for.”
My chest swelled.
She could live.
She could go home.
She could grow up.
“I’m telling you now so you can prepare yourself,” he added.
“I’m ready,” I said firmly. “For anything.”
For the first time, his expression softened—not as a CEO, not as a superior.
As a surgeon preparing for battle.
“You may go.”
“Yes, sir.”
The next morning, I arrived unusually early.
I wanted to see her before rounds. I wanted to make her laugh again.
I rushed inside, reached my desk, and was just about to drop my bag—
When the alarm blared.
The emergency alarm.
My blood ran cold.
I looked at the screen.
Room number.
Hers.
The bag slipped from my fingers.
I ran.
The hallway felt endless.
Too slow.
Too slow.
I pushed her door open.
She was shaking.
Her body trembled violently as she struggled for breath, fighting for air that wouldn’t come.
Monitors beeped wildly.
Her hands clawed weakly at the sheets.
“Please…” I whispered, rushing to her side, my own hands shaking just as badly.
She was trying so hard.
Too hard.
And in that moment, all the hope I had been holding shattered into something terrifying.
Fear.
Raw. Crushing fear.
- Writer
