The moment we stepped out of the car, the hospital assaulted my senses. The rhythmic wail of ambulance sirens, the organized chaos of health workers striding past in a blur of scrubs, the sharp, sterile sting of antiseptic that threatened to make my head swim. For someone who loathed hospitals, it was a waking nightmare. But my curiosity about Ben-Oni was a stronger pull, so I followed him through the automatic doors.
A young woman was walking toward us, her stride confident and purposeful. She was tall, with startling blue eyes and rich brunette hair. An aura of competence surrounded her.
"Benny," she said, her voice laced with genuine concern. "Why did you come in today? Wouldn't it be better to take some time?"
"No," he replied, his tone flat and dismissive. "It wasn't necessary." He brushed past her without a second glance, his expression a cold mask.
As I moved to follow him, something caught my eye: the ID tag clipped to her white coat. I had been so busy trying to acclimate to the overwhelming environment that I hadn't truly looked at her. The tag read Dr. Elsa Reyes.
I took a step back, my invisible eyes widening. Dr. Elsa? It seemed fundamentally unfair. No one should be allowed to be that stunning and be a doctor. It wasn't that she couldn't be, but it defied expectation. She had the face, she looked like she came from money, she was young, and she was a physician, which meant a hefty salary.
I looked at her life, then at my own invisible, purposeless one. The chasm between us felt infinite. Was it hard work? Was it luck? Was she simply one of God's favorites? I didn't know, but the familiar sting of envy was sharp and bitter.
Shaking myself free of the thought, I hurried to catch up with Ben-Oni. I found him standing in a corridor, and nearby, three young women in scrubs were whispering, their heads huddled together. Their eyes kept darting toward him. My interest piqued, I drifted closer.
"Look at him," a slightly taller, skinny one murmured. "So sad. He used to be so close with that old patient. She died because of his carelessness. But he's rich, so who's going to press charges for an old hag with no family?"
"Stop it," another one snapped back, her voice firm. "Her case was end-stage heart failure. He did everything he could to save her. We all know he's the best cardiologist here, but that doesn't make him a god. The least we can be is kind." She shot them a disgusted look and walked away.
The tall one scoffed. "She's just daydreaming of being with him. He'll never notice her when Dr. Reyes is around."
"Still," the third one said quietly, "she has a point." They dispersed, leaving me with a whirlwind of new information.
A cardiologist? So he wasn't just handsome and sad; he was brilliant, too. Everyone around him seemed perfect. He had been blaming himself for a patient whose condition was incurable. And he and Elsa... were they a couple? It made a bitter kind of sense. They fit together, two perfect, gilded people.
A wave of sadness washed over me, this time for him. He lived in a complicated world, surrounded by people who saw his status, not his struggle. Just because a person is a millionaire doesn't mean they're immune to pain. We see people as perfect from the outside because we don't know the wars they are fighting on the inside.
I followed him into an office. He sank into his chair, his head in his hands, staring at a file on his desk. I couldn't help but watch him, a silent guardian in the corner of his private hell. After a minute, he stood and began his rounds. I followed like his shadow.
He visited children, the elderly, and young adults, all of them tethered to machines and the fragile hope of another day. I found myself crying as he spoke to them with a gentleness I hadn't seen before. I saw children whose dreams weren't of becoming doctors or pilots, but simply of being healthy. I saw young people my own age, not bitter about their sluggish lives or falling behind their friends, but praying desperately for a chance to start again from zero.
I had always believed life was more about luck than hard work. That your circumstances-your family, your connections-determined your fate. But here, watching them, I understood. Being healthy wasn't luck. It was a gift. A temporary one. And maybe our struggles are what lead us to a deeper understanding. I finally understood that we don't choose our bodies, our families, or our environments. But we can choose how we face them. The best way to survive this temporary life is to accept it.
Hours later, Ben-Oni's work was done. He headed for the parking garage, and I trailed him back to his car. Once inside, he made a call. "Have the chauffeur put my luggage outside the main gate," he said, his voice clipped. He didn't want to see his mother.
He drove to a new house-a different mansion, this one with a sprawling garden and a sparkling pool. It was beautiful, and for some reason, I was happy for him. It felt like a fresh start. As he went inside, I followed, my curiosity about him growing into something more. He gave me a strange sense of peace. He was cold, yes, but he wasn't a bad person.
He walked into his new bedroom, and I followed him in. He stopped, his back to me.
Then he spoke, his voice low and calm. "So, are you going to stand there and stare while I change?"
My mind short-circuited. "Hell no! I'm not that type of person," I blurted out, turning my face away instinctively. "What do you mean?"
It took a few seconds for the reality of the situation to hit me. He spoke to me. He knew I was there. I spun back around, my invisible jaw dropping.
"What?" I shouted, my voice a strangled whisper.