Rain's POV:
The night is beautiful.
It really is—achingly so.
The kind of beautiful that feels unfair when you're standing inside it hollowed out.
The mountains are still, massive silhouettes carved against the sky, their edges softened by mist.
Snow glints faintly under the cloud cover, reflecting a pale, bruised light.
The wind carries the scent of pine and cold earth, clean and sharp, like it's trying to wake something inside me.
But I feel empty tonight.
No—
That's not quite it.
I feel useless.
The word settles heavy in my chest, ugly and persistent, refusing to leave.
My day dragged on in a blur of forms and numbers.
One chart after another—
BP. Pulse. Saturation.
Names I won't remember tomorrow attached to bodies I wasn't allowed to really touch—not in the way that matters.
Not in the way that fixes something broken.
One hundred and sixty people.
One hundred and sixty times I wrapped the cuff around an arm.
One hundred and sixty times I nodded, wrote, moved on.
That was it.
I stare at the mountains again, willing them to answer me.
They don't.
They just sit there—ancient, unmoved, indifferent to my quiet spiral.
The sky looks angry tonight.
Thick clouds press low, dark and swollen, like they're holding something back.
Maybe rain.
Maybe thunder.
Maybe nothing at all.
What are you doing, Rain?
When I was younger, I was so sure.
So painfully sure.
I wanted to be a doctor the way some people want air.
It wasn't a question—it was a fact.
I carried it with me everywhere, wore it like armor.
You tell yourself it's for honor, right?
For service.
For purpose.
To heal.
To serve.
But am I healing?
But am I serving?
If this matters—if these small checks are valuable—why do I feel so worthless doing them?
I know they matter. I do. Somewhere in my rational brain, I know that BP and pulse can be important.
I know early signs prevent disasters.
So why does it feel like I've been benched?
Why does it feel like I'm fixing boo-boos while something real is happening somewhere else?
My gaze drifts—unwilling, traitorous—to the trauma center across the east wing.
The door stands there like a dare.
My eyes were glued to it all day, every nerve stretched tight as I tried to peek inside without being obvious.
I watched people disappear through it—nurses, doctors, stretchers wheeled fast and purposeful.
They didn't look back.
They never do.
I felt like I'd been left behind.
Like a child told to stay in the corner while the adults handled the fire.
And the way I was asked to leave—polite, firm, final—still burns.
Why not take me?
Am I not good enough?
Not serious enough?
Maybe boo-boos really are all I'm good for.
It's okay, right?
It's not that bad.
I tell myself that like a mantra, but my body doesn't listen.
Noises rattle me.
Sudden sounds make my skin prickle. Laughter—sharp, unexpected—sends my chest tightening, my throat clawing like it's trying to close itself off.
The dark presses too close.
My thoughts wash over me, wave after wave, soaking through whatever fragile balance I'd managed to build today.
I'm about to leave—just turn around and go numb somewhere—when I see him.
Danny.
He's standing there, half-shadowed, pulling a cigarette from his pocket like it's muscle memory.
He smokes?
Since when?
"Rain," he says, like he doesn't quite believe I'm real.
"Hey you," I reply, staring straight ahead into the night, afraid if I look at him too directly something will crack.
"It's three a.m.," he says. "Don't you have to sleep?"
"It's three a.m.—where have you been?" I shoot back.
He doesn't answer.
He just walks toward me.
That's when I notice it.
His left hand is strapped tight against the side of his torso, fingers curled like he's holding something in place.
Is he hurt?
Did he go with them too?
Why didn't he call me?
Maybe he thinks I can't take it either.
Maybe he thinks I'm fragile.
"How did you get hurt?" I ask, my voice softer than I want it to be. I'm hoping—ridiculously—that he'll give me something real.
Something honest.
For a moment, he just looks at me.
The night stretches around us.
The air smells damp now, thick with the promise of rain.
"Bullet graze," he says simply.
And then—like it's nothing—he brings the cigarette to his lips, lights it, exhales smoke into the dark.
My stomach drops.
"Let me see it," I say, already stepping closer, already reaching for him.
I lift his T-shirt, and the sight makes my breath hitch.
The wound is ugly.
Angry red.
Cleaned, but unmistakable.
God.
He must've been in so much pain.
Someone did a good job with it—whoever it was knew what they were doing.
It just needs a dressing change later.
Another boo-boo you can manage, Rain.
The thought makes me feel pathetic.
He flicks the cigarette away and looks at me then—really looks at me.
The way he watches me makes my skin feel bare, like I've been stripped of something I didn't agree to give up.
I turn away quickly, fix my eyes on the mountains, anywhere but his mouth.
For a second, I think he'll say nothing.
Then—
"Do you remember how we used to sneak off to the terrace at our old place?"
"Of course I do," I say, a real smile trying to push through the heaviness.
"We'd sit on that boulder, steal food—mostly thanks to you—and watch all the movies we weren't allowed to watch at my place."
I feel sixteen again just saying it.
"And how you'd look at me every time someone kissed on screen," he says, amusement finally threading through his voice, "to see if I was watching?"
"And the minute you were," I laugh softly, "I'd call you Dirty Danny."
"That feels like forever ago," I say.
Silence answers me.
It sits heavy between us, like it doesn't plan on leaving anytime soon.
"Do you remember…that night " he starts.
I know.
I know exactly what he means.
A night like this.
Seven years ago.
Seven Years Ago:
I'm on the terrace, humming to myself, when Danny storms in.
I can tell immediately—he's angry.
"Well, guess who finally showed up," I taunt.
I taunt him a lot nowadays.
"Like it matters," he snaps.
"Weren't you with—what's his name—Troy?"
"Firstly, it's Trevor," I say.
"And how do you even know that? I thought you were out. You didn't want to hang, so—"
"So because I wasn't there, you run off with another guy?" He looks at me with such potent disgust.
"What is your problem?" I snap. "You sound like a child.
You know what I'm going home."
I take a few steps away.
He grabs my arm.
"What did you do?" he demands.
"Did you just talk—or did you kiss him too?"
The sheer audacity.
I slap him.
The sound cracks through the air.
Even as my hand stings, my chest hurts more.
I thought—God, I really thought—we had something.
But maybe that was just me.
Maybe it always was.
"Even if I did kiss him," I say, shoving him away, "what's it to you?"
" Since when did you start caring huh?!"
He looks at me like I'm the most idiotic thing he has ever seen.
"Because I want to be the one to do it!" he yells.
No.No.No
That's such bullshit.
Thunder rolls.
The first drops of rain hit my skin.
And they do nothing to calm me down.
He's distant lately.
Broody.
Always gone.
Like I'm something he's already outgrown.
Like I'm a doll that he doesn't play with anymore, just keeps it around.
Because breaking it off would be so much trouble right ?!
Right ?
"You don't want to kiss me," I cry.
"You just don't want anyone else to either!"I scream.
My hands still trying to push him away.
The Rain.
The Night.
This Boy.
All getting to me.
"I'll kiss who I want," I add recklessly.
Maybe I'm being stupid or maybe I'm being brave.
"Trevor—or anyone else."
He pushes me back until my shoulders hit the wall.
"Rain take that back," he demands.
"No," I choke.
"You don't get to pretend now."
My voice breaks.
"You don't even like me anymore. You don't meet me. You don't hug me. You don't even cook for me."
"Look at me," he says.
I look away.
He cups my jaw, forces my gaze back.
"I like you," he says
"I like you a lot."
Rain pours now, soaking us both.
"I stay away because I don't know how to be around you," he continues.
"Because I want things I don't know how to explain."
"I understand," I whine.
"What do you understand?"
"That people kiss," I say.
"....And do other things. But you don't see me like that."
"Do you want to know how I see you?" he asks.
Rain streams down his face.
I want to say no.
I want to say yes.
I want to say no.
I want to say yes.
"Yeah," I whisper. "I do."
"I see you like that.
I see everything about you.
The way you hum while you study.
It's annoying.
How your eyes fill with so much passion when you talk about the things you love.
And I hope, I so desperately hope, I'm one of those things too.
I see you.
I see you when you lie and make yourself small so you don't bother the people around you.
I don't like that about you.
But I love that you never do that around me.
I love your hair.
It's so soft.
I don't meet you because every time we do, you hug me like that, and then I try so hard not to sniff your hair.
I touch it and then I don't want to wash my hands.
It's so stupid.
And your hair….
It smells like… almonds and coconuts.
I try to stay away because I don't want you to get weirded out by me.
I don't want to lose you.
God I don't want to lose you .
I don't want you kissing anyone.
I am your best friend right.
Your first best friend.
Then I ask from you, that your every first must be mine Rain.
But I can't tell you that.
I see the way you look now.
Jesus.
Yeah, and that thing you do.
Look down at your feet when you feel conscious.
How do I tell you there's nothing to feel conscious about?
That you are fucking perfect, Rain.
I love how you smile.
It's so bright.
I see how it affects the people around you.
But you are so oblivious.
I love your hair. I want to touch your hair.
Wrap it around.
Keep a piece of it.
You— your…..I don't know.
I can't say anything else.
I don't cook for you because now, when you enter the kitchen, it's different.
When I grab you like that, it's different Rain.
You don't understand.
I used to feed you pasta, but it's—I—you—
I—"
And then I just go on my toes, and before I know it, I'm kissing him.
I'm kissing Danny.
I'm kissing my best friend.
I'm kissing the boy.
The boy.