Silent Strings

Chapter 12

The memory came unbidden, dragging Jackson back to one of the most maddening periods of his life—when Ines had vanished without a trace.

Three years ago.

He remembered the frustration, the growing sense of dread that consumed him as he tried and failed to get in touch with her. The last time he had seen her was three weeks prior—when they’d spent the night together. She’d been quieter than usual that night, her laughter more subdued, her eyes distant. He had chalked it up to her being tired from work, promising himself he’d ask her about it next time.

But there hadn’t been a next time.

The first call went unanswered. Then the second. Then the fifth. He stopped counting after a while, trying not to let the anxiety clawing at him overwhelm his usually calm demeanor.

He’d gone to her apartment, knocking harder than he should have, only to be met with silence.

It wasn’t until her landlady opened the door that he realized something was wrong.

“She left,” the old woman had said, peeking out from behind her half-opened door. “Packed up everything about a week ago. Didn’t say where she was going.”

Jackson had stood there, stunned. Left? Without telling him?

It didn’t make sense. Ines wasn’t the type to just… disappear.

Feeling the panic simmering under his skin, he had driven straight to Kassian’s place. His best friend would know something—he had to.

The conversation played out in his mind as if it had just happened yesterday.

“Kassian!” he’d called out as he stormed into his friend’s penthouse, uninvited but too desperate to care.

Kassian had emerged from his home office, raising an eyebrow at Jackson’s disheveled appearance. “You look like hell, man. What’s going on?”

“It’s Ines,” Jackson had blurted, pacing the length of the room. “She’s gone. She’s not at her apartment, and she’s not answering my calls. Do you know where she is?”

Kassian’s brows furrowed as he crossed his arms. “What do you mean she’s gone?”

“I mean she packed up and left, Kass,” Jackson had snapped, his voice rising. “Her landlady said she moved out last week, and she didn’t tell me a damn thing!”

Kassian’s expression darkened. “I didn’t know. I haven’t heard from her either.”

Jackson had stopped pacing, his chest tightening. “You’re telling me you have no idea where she went?”

“No,” Kassian had said firmly, though his tone softened at the sight of Jackson’s growing distress. “But I’ll help you find out.”

And Kassian had tried. They both had. Calls to mutual friends, messages to acquaintances who might know something. Nothing.

It was like she had vanished into thin air.

Days turned into weeks, and Jackson found himself spiraling. Every unanswered text, every call that went straight to voicemail, felt like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t understand why she hadn’t told him—why she hadn’t trusted him enough to say goodbye.

Then, finally, came the answer.

“I got a lead,” Kassian had told him one evening, his voice cautious. “She’s not in the country, Jackson. Left for the Philippines a couple of weeks ago.”

Jackson had stared at him, disbelief etched into his features. “The Philippines? Why?”

Kassian shrugged, looking as baffled as Jackson felt. “Don’t know. But it’s confirmed. She’s there.”

Jackson had sunk into the nearest chair, his mind racing. Why had she left? Why hadn’t she told him?

Why had she left him behind?

He had toyed with the idea of chasing her down, of hopping on the next flight to Manila and demanding answers. But something stopped him. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was fear—fear that she didn’t want to be found, that she didn’t want him.

In the end, he’d stayed, channeling his frustration into work, burying himself in surgeries and rounds to avoid thinking about her. But no matter how hard he tried, the memories of her lingered, a constant ache in the back of his mind.

And now, three years later, with her back in his life, the questions he’d buried were clawing their way to the surface again.

Why had she left? Is it really just because of her grandmother’s death? Or is there something more to it?

And why did he still care so damn much?

Ine's Point of View

My day had been the usual whirlwind of chaos. Patient charts piled up faster than I could sort through them, nurses called for updates every few minutes, and every hallway seemed to echo with the constant hum of urgency. It didn’t faze me—I thrived in this pace, in this controlled storm where every action had purpose and every second counted.

I was busy adjusting an IV line when I saw him.

Jackson.

I froze, my hands stilling for just a moment as my eyes caught the unmistakable figure walking toward the OR. His scrub cap sat slightly askew, dark brown hair poking out messily, and even from this distance, I could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jawline. He looked... tired.

No, tired didn’t even begin to cover it. Exhausted. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

And yet somehow, he still carried himself with that same unshakable confidence, as if sheer determination alone kept him upright. His shoulders were squared, his stride deliberate, but even I could see the weariness in the way he moved.

How is he still standing?

I watched him push through the OR doors, the metal swinging shut behind him. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at where he had been, my mind caught in an endless loop of concern.

I’d heard the rumors. Jackson had been pulling double—no, triple—shifts, one surgery after another without a single break. He’d always been the genius, the prodigy who made everything look easy, but even geniuses weren’t invincible.

And yet…

I swallowed, the corner of my mouth twitching with a hint of frustration as my thoughts took an unwelcome turn.

Why does he still look so good?

It was maddening. Completely maddening.

The dark circles under his eyes should’ve made him look haggard, but somehow, they didn’t. The slight scruff on his jaw, the loose scrub top that still hinted at his broad shoulders—it all just made him… hotter. Rugged, even. Like some kind of hero in a hospital drama who doesn’t know how to slow down.

I pressed my lips together, shaking my head as I looked back at the chart in my hands. God, Ines, get a grip. You’re not some lovesick teenager.

Still, I couldn’t get the image of him out of my head. The way he’d looked just now—focused, determined, utterly absorbed in his work. That was Jackson in a nutshell. He gave everything, all the time, to everyone. And while it was admirable, it was also infuriating.

He’s going to burn himself out at this rate.

That was the excuse I gave myself for caring, at least. Because it wasn’t just about concern for a colleague or an old friend. It was about Jackson.

The man who once played my favorite song on the piano during a college festival. The man who made me laugh in the middle of the most stressful days. The man who, despite everything, still managed to drive me completely insane.

I tried to push him out of my mind as I went about my shift, but it didn’t work. Every so often, I found myself glancing toward the OR corridor, wondering how he was doing.

Was he still in there? Scrubbing in for yet another surgery? Pushing himself further when he should’ve stopped hours ago?

Why does he do this to himself? I wondered. Jackson wasn’t just good at what he did—he was brilliant. But brilliance didn’t mean much if you ran yourself into the ground.

And yet, knowing him, he’d keep going until he collapsed. That’s just who he was.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck as I turned my attention back to the task at hand. But even as I forced myself to focus, one thought kept circling back, persistent and unwelcome.

Why does he still have this effect on me?