The sterile scent of antiseptic is my morning coffee. Another dawn, another round of sutures and scalpels. They say I'm good. "Dr. Akira, a steady hand, a sharp mind." My colleagues nod, the nurses respect me. At twenty-eight, I've already assisted on procedures most surgeons won't touch for another decade. My apartment is minimalist, high up, overlooking the city lights that blur into a hopeful haze at night. My bank account is healthy. My life is… fine. Perfectly, undeniably, utterly fine.
(He carefully tied a complex knot on a surgical practice pad, his movements precise and automatic.)
Just… fine. It's a strange word, isn't it? Like a flat line on an EKG. No dramatic peaks, no terrifying dips. Just… existing.
I moved to the sink, scrubbing his hands meticulously, the water running hot and fast.
I remember Mrs. Watanabe from yesterday. We removed a tricky tumor. Her family was in tears, bowing, thanking me. It felt… good. A tangible impact. Saving a life. That's supposed to fill you up, right? And it does, for a moment. But then you go home to the quiet apartment, and the fine-ness settles back in.
(He dries his hands and starts putting on his scrubs, the familiar green fabric a second skin.)
My sister, Hana, visited last month. She's always so bright, so full of energy. Bouncing from one thing to the next. She looked at me, really looked at me, and said, "You know, Akira, you were a cute kid. Just so quiet." Cute? Me? I wouldn't know. I was too busy with textbooks. The quadratic formula was more interesting than recess games. Preparing for entrance exams felt more important than scraped knees and shared secrets.
I walked down the hospital corridor, the polished floor reflecting the harsh overhead lights.
High school… a blur of study sessions and silent lunches. I saw groups laughing in the courtyard, couples walking hand-in-hand after school. It seemed… foreign. Like a different species of human. I told myself it wasn't important. That success, academic success, was the goal. And I achieved it. Valedictorian, top university, prestigious medical school. The path was clear, and I walked it, head down, eyes forward.
(He enters an examination room, checking the equipment, his movements economical.)
If I could go back… just for a week, maybe. To that awkward, skinny kid with thick glasses. I'd tell him to put the book down. To talk to the girl in the next row, the one with the shy smile. To join the kendo club, even though he'd probably be terrible. To just… experience it. Not just observe from the sidelines. Of course, I'd go back. In a heartbeat. But time only moves in one direction. A frustratingly persistent rule of the universe.
(He leaves the examination room and heads towards the operating theater, the double doors swinging open.)
Another surgery. Another chance to be the good doctor. The successful one. And I am good. I know I am. My hands are steady, my focus absolute. In here, I have a purpose that feels undeniable.
(Hours later, he's walking home, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. The city is coming alive with the evening rush.)
The air is cooler now. The end of another fine day. Dinner will be something healthy, something easy to prepare. Maybe I'll read a medical journal. Or perhaps stare at the ceiling. The possibilities are… limited.
(He reaches a busy intersection, the traffic a roaring river of metal.)
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to just… not be fine. To feel something intensely. Joy, sorrow, anger, anything vibrant and real. This quiet contentment, this lack of anything truly missing and yet feeling so profoundly empty… it's a strange paradox to live with.
(He steps onto the crosswalk, the light green. He glances up, lost in thought, and then he sees her.)
A girl, maybe early twenties. Wearing a worn baseball cap and oversized spectacles. Head down, engrossed in her phone. Walking against the light. Directly into the path of an accelerating delivery truck.
My mind doesn't process. My body reacts. Adrenaline floods my system, a feeling more potent than anything I've felt in years. I drop my bag, the carefully organized contents spilling onto the pavement. I lunge.
(He feels the impact, a violent, crushing blow that steals his breath. The world explodes into a kaleidoscope of pain and sound.)
Oh.
It's surprisingly… quiet. The roar of the truck is fading. The shouting, the screeching tires… they're distant echoes. My body feels like a broken doll, scattered and heavy.
Is this it?
There wasn't anything fresh left in my life anyway. Just the predictable rhythm of fine-ness. Another surgery, another quiet evening. Repeating until… until this.
I'm not a hero. I'm not good enough to die for anyone else. I didn't have grand pronouncements to make, no final words of wisdom to impart. My life was a quiet hum, a steady, unremarkable frequency.
But I didn't want to live any more, not like that. Not in the quiet, empty fine-ness.
So, I guess… this works.
Killing two birds with one stone. Saving a life, ending a life that felt like it was already over.
Huh.
Maybe… maybe this isn't so bad after all. Maybe…
(His thoughts trail off as the light finally fades.)