Two days away

My two-day break from the hospital had finally arrived,

but instead of feeling relaxed, my mind was restless and would not settle.

When I left the clinic that day, I tried to convince myself that everything was normal,

that it was fine. After all, I had taken care of many patients before.

It was just another shift, another patient, another routine day, nothing more.

But deep down, I knew that something about this situation felt different, and I could not shake it off.

The moment I got home, I realized I couldn't rest, not really.

My mind kept going back to him,the young guy in the recovery room who had undergone surgery the night before.

I kept remembering the way he looked lying on the hospital bed,

the stillness in his face, and how strangely my heart had reacted when I first saw him, a quick, unsteady beat that surprised me.

I had not felt that way in almost three years, and it made me feel unsure of myself.

I tried to distract myself by doing small things around the house, washing a cup, folding a cloth, sweeping the floor, but it didn’t work.

Every quiet moment brought the same thoughts back again, as if the house was too silent.

Why am I thinking about him so much? It didn’t make sense.

I barely knew him. He was simply a patient at the clinic where I was doing my voluntary nursing work. Yet somehow,

his presence had stayed in my mind, and I could not push it away.

Another thought began to trouble me, slow and steady. I suddenly realized something that made my heart feel uneasy.

I had not collected his number, not even a name for his people. The thought kept repeating in my mind, over and over.

What if he gets discharged before I return?

Patients who recover well sometimes leave the hospital quickly, sometimes the very next day.

What if that happened during my two days away? What if I came back and his bed in the recovery room was empty, the sheet pulled flat?

The idea made me feel strangely sad, a quiet ache I did not expect. I tried to reassure myself that it might not happen.

Maybe he still needed more observation. Maybe the doctor would keep him another day.

Maybe he would still be there when I returned. But the uncertainty kept bothering me, like a small stone in my shoe.

That night, as I lay in bed, I found myself silently hoping that he would still be there when my next shift started.

I sent a message to my colleague asking about him, but I deleted it back before she read it because I was afraid she would start asking me questions I can't answer.

later on, I even caught myself praying about it, words coming without thinking.

It felt strange to pray about a patient I barely knew, but I couldn’t help it.

All I wanted was to see him again, even for a minute.

The two days suddenly felt longer than usual, slow in a way that made the hours stretch.

Instead of enjoying my time away from the clinic, I kept counting the hours until my next shift,

checking the time more than I needed to.

Finally, the morning of my return arrived. As I prepared to go back to the clinic,

my heart began to beat faster again, the same quick rhythm from before.

I wasn’t sure why I felt so nervous, but I could feel it in my hands.

Maybe it was because I didn’t know what I would find when I walked back into the recovery room.

Would his bed still be occupied, the curtain half-drawn? Or would it already be empty, the mattress bare?

As I walked toward the clinic that morning, one question kept repeating in my mind, over and over. Would he still be here when I return?