Chapter 2: breathe

By the time I reached my apartment door, I was barely standing. My fingers were too numb to grip the keys. Somehow, I forced the lock open and stumbled inside, pulling him in behind me.

The warmth hit like a physical blow. My skin stung as heat rushed back, but there was no time to think. I lowered him onto the couch, his wet clothes soaking into the fabric, and hovered, panting, my mind spinning.

He needed warmth. fast.

I sprinted to the bathroom, grabbed every towel I owned, and rushed back. My hands were trembling as I tore off his coat, then his ruined suit jacket. The soaked white shirt underneath clung to his skin, revealing faint ridges of muscle and old scars that made my stomach tighten. Deep, jagged scars, reminders of violence, not accidents.

I swallowed hard, trying not to think.

He needed to be dry. That was all that mattered.

I unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it away, rubbing him briskly with the towel. His skin was icy cold, his pulse weak but there. I worked quickly, wrapping him in towels, then a blanket, whispering under my breath as if words alone could keep him alive.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My heartbeat echoed in my ears, maybe from exhaustion, maybe from the shock still running through my veins. My body felt heavy, but my thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning. The sound of the storm outside faded into something softer, almost like memory.

I thought of my parents.

How my father used to wrap me in blankets when I came in from the snow, scolding me gently for staying out too long. How my mother would laugh, that warm, honeyed laugh that made everything feel safe. I could almost smell her perfume, hear her humming in the kitchen while the world outside froze over.

That was before the fire. Before the smoke, before the screams.

The night it happened still lived in me, the smell of burning wood, the choking air, the way everything I loved turned to ash. I lost my father in those flames. And my mother… she didn’t even get the mercy of peace. She survived the fire, only to die mysteriously weeks later in the hospital. No one gave me answers. Just silence and sympathy.

Maybe that’s why I was here now, on the floor beside a stranger I’d dragged out of a frozen lake, trying to keep him alive with trembling hands. Maybe that’s why I didn’t take him to the hospital. Because hospitals didn’t mean safety to me anymore, they meant loss.

Why do I always do this?

The answer came to me, quiet and aching.

Because I wanted to be a doctor.

Because I couldn’t stand to see life slip away again.

Because every time I saw someone on the edge of death, it felt like my father’s heartbeat slowing, my mother’s eyes closing, all over again.

I changed into warm clothes, tugging on a thick sweatshirt and leggings, and hurried back to him. He was still unconscious, breathing slow and shallow. I let out a shaky sigh and sank into the chair opposite the couch, my body too heavy to move.

Who was this man?

And why had he stepped onto the ice like he didn’t care if he lived or died?

My head drooped, sleep tugging at my eyelids. Just for a second, I told myself. Just long enough to breathe.

Before I drifted off, I brushed a few wet strands of hair from his forehead and whispered, “You’d better wake up, mysterious man. You’d better not die in my house.”

The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Inside, silence settled like snow, heavy, fragile, full of things unsaid.

Then.

a sound.

A movement.

A sharp intake of breath.

I froze, my heart hammering.

Was he waking up? Would he even wake up?

His eyelids didn’t open, but his face shifted, just slightly, caught between pain and something unreadable. Sorrow, maybe. Or something darker.

A shiver crawled up my spine.

For the first time since dragging him out of that lake, I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake.

“God,” I whispered, glancing at him uneasily, “I should’ve taken you to the hospital.”

I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to steady my pulse. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m a student nurse, not a rescuer. What was I even thinking? bringing a suicidal man into my house?”

The storm outside screamed louder, as if mocking my decision. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I’d just saved a man, or invited danger into my home.

“It was because my mother was killed in a hospital, that’s why I didn’t take him there. But now… that decision feels like a mistake.”