Chapter Text
If there was one thing Mira Choi hated, it was a hospital. The sterile smell, the constant beeping, the antiseptic tang that lingered in the air. It all grated on her nerves. She’d spent enough time in them growing up in a family that never seemed to get it right, and enough more in college, recovering from dance injuries, to know exactly how suffocating they could feel.
Now, sitting in a hard plastic chair in the nearly empty lobby, Mira tapped her fingers impatiently against the armrest. The walls were too white, the lights too harsh, the quiet too loud. Everything important seemed to be happening somewhere else, somewhere she couldn’t reach and she hated the helplessness of it.
She hated the feeling that her world could unravel in a single second. She hated the call that had come in the middle of her lecture, the way she’d had to usher her students out and tell them to finish the assignment on their own. She hated the tremor in Jinu’s voice over the phone, the sirens screaming faintly in the background, and the knowledge that something had happened to Rumi.
By now, Rumi had been in surgery for hours. Mira had been left alone in the sterile lobby, every passing minute stretching into an eternity. Jinu had left as soon as they got a lead on the shooter, promising that person wouldn’t get away but that left Mira with nothing but the gnawing uncertainty, pacing and waiting, heart hammering, willing time itself to move faster.
Mira’s fingers drummed against the armrest again, faster this time, her eyes fixed on the swinging double doors to the operating wing. Every time a nurse passed, her stomach jumped, her pulse threatening to betray her calm. She couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop imagining every worst-case scenario.
The waiting room was nearly empty, save for a teenage boy a few seats down, his eyes glued to his phone as he scrolled through social media and typed away with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. His black backpack sat on the floor beside him, a small green turtle patch catching Mira’s attention. She almost cracked a smile.
Maybe it was the stress getting to her, but for a fleeting moment, the boy reminded her of Zoey.
The memory of her college days twisted her stomach into knots. Thinking of Zoey now filled her with a guilt so heavy, so consuming, it felt like she was drowning.
It was a random Monday morning when Zoey had walked into the dorm. Mira had blinked in surprise at the black-haired girl.
“Oh, sorry!” the shorter girl had yelped, cheeks flushed a soft pink. Headphones rested on her neck, backpack swung over her shoulder. “Rumi said the dorm would be empty. I’m just waiting for her to get out of class. I don’t mind waiting outside, though.”
Mira had shrugged. This must be the girlfriend Rumi never stopped talking about. “It’s chill. You can wait on her side.”
“Mira, right?” Zoey had asked, her voice hesitant but polite.
Mira had nodded, suppressing a snort when her eyes landed on the backpack. “Nice backpack,” she had said, the corners of her mouth twitching into an amused smile.
She shook her head, trying to shove the memories away, but they clung stubbornly to her mind. She must have been staring for longer than she realized because the boy’s eyes were on her now.
Mira quickly looked down at her hands, pretending to check her phone, though she didn’t actually have it out. Her chest still throbbed with the remnants of those old memories, guilt and regret twisting together with the worry for Rumi.
When she looked up, the boy was standing in front of her, and she got a better look. He was tall for his age, black hair falling around his face with vivid purple tips, and light brown eyes that held a quiet, earnest curiosity. A small smile tugged at his lips, and in his hand, he held out a bright red Gatorade bottle.
Zoey always drank the blue ones.
Mira blinked, the thought hitting her like a pang of guilt she hadn’t expected. She shook her head, forcing herself back to the present, to the sterile lobby, to the gnawing anxiety coiling in her chest.
“Uh… thanks,” she muttered, accepting the bottle. The cold plastic was grounding in her hand, a small tether to the world outside her spiraling thoughts.
The boy gave a quick nod and retreated to his chair, scrolling through his phone again. Mira sank back, taking a sip, letting the sweetness cut through the tightness in her chest. For a fleeting moment, the memory, the guilt, and the panic receded.
But it was only temporary.
Because Rumi was still on that operating table. Still fighting. And Mira could feel the seconds stretching endlessly, her stomach twisting with every passing moment. Every beep from the hallway, every shuffle of nurses’ shoes, reminded her that she was powerless until someone came to tell her that Rumi was okay.
“Ms. Bates?”
Mira glanced up at the sound of the boy’s voice. He was leaning over the receptionist’s desk, hands braced on the counter as he stretched onto his tiptoes.
“Do you know if my mother’s office is open?” he asked, eyes wide with hopeful curiosity.
He shifted from foot to foot, a little restless, a little nervous and Mira felt something soften in her chest despite the pressure crushing her.
Ms. Bates smiled gently up at him. “Yes, sweetheart. Dr. Song’s office is open. But she’s still in surgery right now, kiddo. You’ll be alone in there for a while.”
“Oh.” His shoulders relaxed, not disappointed, just resigned, like this wasn’t the first time he’d waited for her. “That’s okay. I just wanna finish my homework.”
Ms. Bates chuckled as she typed something into her computer. “Homework, huh? On a Monday morning? You’re more disciplined than most grown adults who walk through here.”
The boy shrugged, fiddling with the zipper of his backpack. “It’s either that or sit in the hallway for two hours. Mom always says if I have time to scroll TikTok, I have time to do my math.”
Ms. Bates raised an eyebrow. “Smart woman.”
“Yeah…” He hesitated, then leaned a little closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “She’s kinda strict, but only ‘cause she’s tired all the time. Yesterday she fell asleep with her face on the kitchen table. Again.”
Ms. Bates snorted. “That sounds about right.”
“But don’t tell her I said that,” he added quickly, pointing a warning finger. “Last time someone told her she looked tired she didn’t sleep for like… three days straight.”
“Oh honey, trust me, doctors don’t need anyone reminding them.”
He grinned at that, rocking back on his heels.
Ms. Bates clicked around on her computer, then glanced back at him. “You want me to order you something to eat while you wait?”
The boy froze.
Then his eyes went huge. “Wait, like… real food? Not hospital pudding?”
She laughed. “Real food. Whatever you want.”
His jaw dropped, scandalized in the best way. “Are you serious?”
“Of course,” she said. “Dr. Song let me know you’d be here a lot this week. She gave me permission to order meals for both of you whenever she’s stuck in surgery or running late.”
His whole face lit up, like someone had turned on a lamp behind his eyes. “Oh my god. Thank you!”
“What are you in the mood for? I’ve got a menu from that little place across the street. The one with the kimchi fried rice you inhale every time your mom brings it.”
He gasped dramatically. “You mean… Kimchi Kingdom?”
Ms. Bates shook her head affectionately. “Yes, Kimchi Kingdom.”
“YES. Please. Can I get the fried rice and maybe, maybe the dumplings? If that’s not too much?”
“It’s not too much,” she assured him. “Your mom said to feed you properly. Her words.”
He puffed up proudly. “She always forgets to feed herself, though.”
“Which is why I also ordered her soup earlier,” Ms. Bates said, tapping a sticky note. “She’s not slipping past me today.”
The boy grinned, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I’m gonna go to her office then. Just send me a text when the food gets here?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
He waved before heading down the hallway, purple-tipped hair bouncing with each excited step.
Another hour and a half crawled by before a doctor finally emerged from the trauma bay. Mira straightened instantly, pulse surging, breath catching in her throat. Every instinct screamed that this, this was the moment.
“Ms. Choi?” the woman called.
Mira stood before she even registered moving. The doctor approached with steady, purposeful steps. black hair pulled neatly back, white coat pristine, posture radiating calm. Someone who knew how to deliver news, good or bad, without flinching.
But Mira’s attention didn’t go to her face.
It went to the glint of gold pinned to her coat.
Her breath punched out of her.
Her vision tunneled.
Her world tilted for the second time in her life.
Dr. Song.
Dr. Zoey Song.
Zoey Song.
Zoey.
And suddenly she wasn’t in a hospital waiting room anymore.
She was twenty again. Back in that dorm room. Back in that moment that changed everything.
The dorm door creaked open, the soft click echoing through the quiet hallway.
Rumi froze first. Mira felt her stomach drop a moment later, her entire universe tilting on its axis.
Zoey stood in the doorway, roses crushed slightly against her chest, headphones still hanging loosely around her neck. Her brown eyes flicked from Rumi to Mira, once, twice, before her entire expression collapsed into something Mira had never seen on her face before.
Pure, unfiltered betrayal.
“Zoey—” Rumi stepped forward immediately, voice catching, but Zoey jerked back as if she’d been burned.
“What the fuck, Rumi?” Zoey’s voice didn’t crack, it shattered, loud and sharp and trembling. “What the actual— are you kidding me right now?”
Rumi reached for her again. “Baby, listen— I can explain— ”
“Oh my god,” Zoey laughed but it wasn’t a laugh. It was a broken, breathless sound. “Explain? Explain what? That you’re cheating on me? In your dorm? With your fucking roommate?”
“Zoey, stop,” Rumi choked out. “It’s not like that—”
“Don’t,” Zoey hissed, eyes flashing dangerously. “Do not say my name.”
Rumi’s breath stuttered. “Zoey, I swear to you, I—”
“How long?” Zoey whispered.
Rumi froze, mouth opening but no sound coming out.
Zoey’s hands tightened around the roses until the stems bent, petals starting to fall.
“How long, Rumi?”
Zoey let out a laugh that punched the air from Mira’s chest, the moment Rumi didn’t answer.
The roses slipped from her hands and scattered across the dorm floor, red petals tearing onto the carpet.
“Don’t follow me.”
But Rumi did.
They disappeared down the hallway, Zoey walking fast, Rumi calling after her, and Mira just stood there, staring at the roses she didn’t deserve to be anywhere near.
The petals were still falling when the door finally swung shut.
“Ms. Choi?”
The voice yanked her violently back to the present.
Mira blinked hard.
Dr. Zoey Song, older now, hair longer, eyes sharper but still painfully familiar, stood right in front of her. Not nineteen. Not a girl clutching roses.
A surgeon.
A surgeon who had just operated on Rumi.
And Mira’s stomach lurched.
The room swayed.
Zoey’s eyes softened just slightly, professional, unreadable, distant. Tension wound so tightly it hummed.
“Mira?” Zoey asked quietly.
Her voice.
God, her voice.
Mira’s throat closed.
Her body decided before her brain did.
She bolted to the nearest trash bin, leaned over—
—and threw up.
The world spun around her, the antiseptic smell burning her nose, tears stinging her eyes. She clutched the edge of the bin, gasping.
Footsteps approached quickly.
“Hey, hey, don’t move,” Zoey said, no hesitation, no pause. “You’re hyperventilating.”
Warm hands touched her back, steady and grounding, professional, but familiar in a way that twisted Mira’s chest painfully.
“Mira,” Zoey said again, lower this time. “Breathe. You need to breathe.”
Mira squeezed her eyes shut.
Because somehow, impossibly, heartbreak and relief and guilt and fear all collided at once.
And the woman helping her breathe
was the same one she’d once shattered.