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Robby just needs five minutes.
Five minutes where the air is cooler, the silence is thicker, and he doesn’t have to feel the world’s weight pressing on him. Not for a moment, just a second to breathe.
It’s ridiculous, how quickly the panic comes. How it takes over his body without warning, his breath getting shallow and tight in his chest. His fingers are trembling as they grip the rooftop railing, his thoughts a blur of Leah, Adamson, Mr. Williamson, the 18-year old kid, the sister – it was starting to blend together. He should've just stayed fucking home.
It doesn’t make sense. He should’ve been able to fix it, he should’ve done something, anything—just anything—to stop it.
But he didn’t.
Robby can feel the tears before he even knows they’re falling, wet streaks down his face. He hasn’t realized he’s crying until the warm droplets meet the cold of his scrubs, and then, they’re gone. Gone, like everything else.
“Five minutes,” he mutters, over and over. “Five minutes alone.”
His chest feels like it’s collapsing under the weight of it, and his hands shake too much to stop it. Every breath is a struggle, every moment feels like it’s stretching forever. He doesn't know how long he's been out here. Long enough for his vision to blur, long enough for his heart to race too fast.
The door behind him opens.
“Robby?” Her voice is gentle, soft, but still—it cuts through him.
“Collins? What–why are you–” she cuts him off.
“I turned my phone on. Dana called, but that’s beside the point. Robby…” she trails off, not wanting to say the wrong thing.
His throat tightens immediately. “Fuck, I—just—give me a minute,” he stammers, but his words are jumbled. “Just need five minutes. I just... I can’t—"
“Michael.”
The panic in his chest spikes, and he can’t breathe, not right. He’s trying to stay calm, but he’s seeing dark spots and this fucking ringing won’t stop. His hands press harder against the railing, his knuckles white.
“Michael, please,” Heather calls, stepping closer, her voice still that soothing tone. “Come inside.”
His eyes are wide, unfocused, trying to push the world back. “I’m fine,” he says quickly, though his voice cracks on the last word. “I’m fine. I just need to—need to... calm down. Just need five—five minutes, okay?”
He can feel Heather standing behind him, the silence stretching between them. He wants to say something else, to explain, but he can’t. He can’t focus. The world is too loud. Too fast.
But then—her hand. Her hand is on his shoulder, warm and steady, grounding him.
“Robby,” she says again, her voice softer this time. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
The weight of her words hits him harder than it should. Her hand, her presence. It pulls him out of the spiral for just a second, just long enough for him to gasp in a shaky breath.
“Leah—she’s...she’s gone,” Robby says, his voice barely above a whisper. It feels wrong to even say it out loud, the words tasting bitter in his mouth. “Jake’s girlfriend. I couldn’t save her for him. I did everything—I couldn’t…I tried…he’s never going to forgive me.”
He’s shaking now, the tremors coursing through his body, but Heather doesn’t pull away. She’s still there, her touch not letting him slip.
“I knew. I knew when I saw her in the truck,” Robby’s voice wavers, losing its strength. “I thought I could...I thought I could do a miracle, just once.” He pauses, then laughs, a broken sound that doesn’t even feel like it came from him. “I just keep fucking up. Wh—why couldn't I save her? This is what I'm supposed to fucking do.”
Heather doesn’t say anything for a beat. She just stands next to him, her hand moving gently like she’s trying to smooth out the tension in his shoulders. Robby doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t have the energy to.
“What did you do for Leah?”
“W-what?” Robby chokes out.
“When she came in, what did you do? Walk me through the case notes.” she said, hoping it distracts him enough to calm down.
“I-I couldn’t feel a pulse so we started compressions. Four bags of O-Neg. Platelets. Transfused her own blood with the cell saver. More compressions. There was a pulse but we lost it and I…there wasn’t anything left.”
“Robby...” she starts, her voice quieter now, not pitying but real. “You did everything you could. You’re allowed to hurt. But Leah’s death is not your fault. Neither was that 19-year old boy’s fentanyl overdose, or that little girl who drowned to save her sister, not Mr. Spencer. There was nothing more you could’ve done for them, there was nothing more you could’ve done for Adamson. ”
The words break through his panic, but they’re almost too much. Too soft, too real. He feels his chest constrict again. He can’t breathe right. Not yet.
“I—I’m okay,” Robby chokes out, but the words don’t even feel like his. He can’t feel anything, can’t tell where he ends and the weight of everything else begins. “I just—just needed to be alone for a minute.”
Heather doesn’t respond at first. She just keeps her hand on his shoulder, still firm but gentle, grounding him. Robby’s fingers tremble as they grip the railing tighter. He doesn’t want to break, not like this.
“You’re not alone, Robby,” Heather says softly. “I’m right here.”
He looks at her, finally, and the words stick in his throat. He’s not sure if he can say what he’s feeling—if he should. He’s not sure how to ask for help. How to let someone see how far gone he is.
“I don’t know what to do,” Robby says, the words coming out faster now, disjointed, like he’s fighting to stay in control. “I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t fix it. I can’t fix anything. I don’t know how to be... I don’t know how to... keep going.”
Heather’s grip tightens, just slightly, on his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything at first, doesn’t try to make him feel better. She’s just there.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Heather says quietly. “You don’t have to fix it, Robby. You just have to be. You just have to breathe.”
For a moment, Robby doesn’t know what to do with the softness in her words. He wants to say something, to apologize for falling apart, for not being the attending he’s supposed to be, the person he’s supposed to be. But he can’t. Not yet.
Instead, he breathes, deep and slow. It’s not enough, but it’s a start.
“Stay with me,” he whispers. His voice cracks, but he doesn’t pull away when her hand moves up to touch his arm, her thumb brushing gently against the fabric of his scrubs. “Please.”
Heather doesn’t hesitate. She steps closer, her presence a quiet promise that she’s not going anywhere.
“I’m right here,” she says softly. And in that moment, it feels like enough.