I quickly pulled the scrub top on, tied the drawstring of the pants, and shoved my filthy clothes into a plastic laundry bag.
I had to find him.
The corridor was empty. I rushed back toward the nursing station.
"The man who just walked out of that storage room—the tall man in the black coat," I said, trying not to pant. "Which way did he go?"
The nurse pointed down a side hall. "He headed toward the oncology wing. Down that hall, then the first left. He looked awfully upset."
Oncology. I was only 11 when I learnt what that word meant.
I followed her directions, my sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
I found him near the end of the hall, partially obscured by a mobile medical cart, sitting hunched over on a fold-down bench in a small, seldom-used alcove.
I walked over quietly and sat next to him on the narrow bench. The plastic creaked under our combined weight. I didn't speak immediately, letting the silence serve as a space for his overwhelming pain.
He finally lifted his head. His dark eyes were red-rimmed and wet, a devastating look on his otherwise stoic face.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his gaze falling to the visitor badge clipped to his coat, which read Staff Access. "I shouldn't have opened that door."
"No, no" I replied softly. "I apologize for being so rude. You were on the highway last night. You helped us. I need to know you're okay, too."
He ran a weary hand over his face. He was avoiding the truth.
"I'm fine," he insisted, but the lie was painful. "I just… I've been here all night."
"You've been here all night," I repeated, glancing around the oncology corridor.
"I know what that means. I sat in a corridor like this eleven years ago. I know that kind of exhaustion."
"I was only a child when my dad died.". I admitted.
He looked at me then, truly looked at me, seeing the vulnerability beneath my smile and the truth in my eyes. The facade finally cracked. His chin began to tremble.
"My wife, Sarah," he finally whispered, the name a raw, broken sound. "We've been married for five years.."
He swallowed hard, fighting for control. "We were supposed to be building our third dream house this year. She was so specific about the light in the kitchen." He choked, a single tear cutting a track through the exhaustion on his cheek.
"The doctors called me back a few hours ago, that was why I had to leave you the way I did. They said the final chemo infusion was too much. The cancer—it just… it took her."
My heart constricted. Cancer. I immediately felt the profound, aching connection to his pain.
"Oh God. I'm so incredibly sorry.It's a terrifying, cruel thing. It eats you up slowly, then takes you"
"Daddy was losing his hair, he was sick most of the time, and couldn't walk by himself on his worst days"
We talked for a timeless span, sharing the small, absurd details of grief—the silence of an empty home, the fear of turning off the lights.
He spoke of Sarah with a fierce love. I spoke of my father's battle, sharing the profound, aching connection of having watched a loved one slowly slip away.
I told him nothing about Charles or the G-Wagon; my betrayal felt small and petty next to his loss.
I sat there comforting the man who had just lost everything. I watched him cry, placing my hand gently on his arm.
"It's okay to fall apart," I murmured. "You don't have to be strong right now. Just breathe."
The close confines of the closet, the weight of our shared tragedy, the quiet rhythm of our breathing—it compressed the world down to just the two of us, two strangers who understood the same kind of shattering loss.
He slowly turned his head toward me, his eyes searching my face, clinging to the only point of raw human empathy he'd found since he heard the news.
And then, out of pure,, uncontrolled grief, he leaned in and pressed his lips against mine.
His kiss was not desire, it was a desperate, primal need for connection, a reckless grab at life, at warmth, at anything that wasn't death. And in a moment of utter emotional surrender, overwhelmed by his pain and my own deep, fresh heartache, I kissed him back.
I had not kissed another man except Charles in five years.
The moment broke instantly. We both pulled away, gasping, our eyes wide with shock. The air between us crackled with shared regret.
I scrambled off the bench, my hands flying up to cover my mouth.
"I'm so sorry," I rushed out, the apology sounding weak and meaningless. "I shouldn't have… I shouldn't be here. I'm so sorry."
I fled the alcove, not waiting for him to reply, and ran down the quiet hallway, leaving the man—the man whose wife had just died—alone with his pain and the consequence of our shared, terrible, confusing moment.