By my second week in the ICU, I had learned the unspoken rhythm of the ward.
Days were a flurry — doctors rounding, physical therapists coaxing movement from unresponsive limbs, relatives clutching coffee cups like lifelines. Nights were different. The noise dimmed, the halls emptied, and the beeping monitors felt louder, steadier, like the heartbeat of the hospital itself.
That's when I liked being here most.
It was 01:15 when I finished my rounds. Room 403's sedation drip needed a refill. Room 405's patient had spiked a fever. But Room 407… always quiet.
I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me.
Ronan lay as he always did — on his back, head slightly turned to the right. The ventilator had been removed weeks before he came here, so all I could hear was the soft hiss of oxygen through the nasal cannula. His hair was dark and a little too long, brushing the tops of his ears.
I did the usual: checked his IV, adjusted the blanket, noted his vitals on the bedside chart. Heart rate 74. BP 116/70. SpO₂ steady.
And then, like every night, I pulled up the chair.
"You know," I began, "I think the nurses at the station are starting to think I'm weird for talking to you so much." I smiled faintly. "But maybe that's okay."
I told him about the cafeteria's mystery soup — pale, watery, possibly chicken, definitely suspicious. About how Doc Arthur called me "Miss Philippines" every time he saw me, even though I'd told him my name twice.
At some point, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it until I finished telling Ronan about the one time my little brother tried to cook rice without washing it and ended up with what looked like glue.
When I finally checked the screen, I froze.
Rhett — 1 new message
I hadn't heard from him in months. Not since before I left home.
> Hi, Lina. I heard from your mom that you're working abroad now. How are you holding up?
Simple. Polite. But my chest tightened anyway.
I typed back before I could overthink it.
> Hey. I'm okay. Just tired. ICU nights.
The reply came almost immediately.
> You always did overwork yourself. Get some rest when you can, alright?
I could almost hear his voice in those words — steady, warm, with that quiet kind of care that never felt heavy.
I slid the phone back into my pocket and glanced at Ronan. His heart rate had ticked up again — 76 now.
"Don't worry," I said softly. "It's just an old friend."
Somewhere, a monitor alarmed faintly from another room. I stayed a few more minutes, telling Ethan about the small park I'd passed on my way to work, the one with a fountain that caught the morning sun.
When I finally left Room 407, I didn't notice the faint twitch of his left hand beneath the blanket.