I woke up suddenly, my heart galloping in my chest, as if I'd been dreaming of running, but I remember neither the dream nor the reason. Just the void. Just the air struggling to enter my lungs. I'm still wearing his shirt. Every night. It smells of his skin, his cologne, and morning coffee. And now it smells of me. Of longing.
I get out of bed with the same mechanical motion I've used for months. That's how I function: step by step, like a clock that refuses to stop. But that doesn't mean I'm not shattered on the inside.
I walk onto the balcony, drawing the cool California air into my chest. It usually wakes me up. Today it just scratches. I sit on the doorstep with bare feet, and for a few seconds, my mother's voice comes to mind.
"Nova, you're going to catch a cold again. Put something on your feet."
Helen Lunaris, 47, the mother who sees and feels everything. Dad, Ryan, would have appeared a few seconds behind her, a gentle 50-year-old bulldog with dry humor, probably saying: "Leave her, Helen. If she catches a cold, I'll make her tea." And then both of them would have grumbled something about my sleeping hours.
My family is... a lot.
But it's mine.
Casian, my 33-year-old brother, is my opposite. Stable, calm, razor-sharp intelligent, with a sense of duty that sometimes makes him seem like the psychologically older brother, not just biologically. And Lucy, his wife – God, Lucy is that warm light you turn on in the house when you don't want to admit you need it. 30 years old and a smile that repairs worlds. Those two are the kind of couple that makes you believe love is actually possible... somewhere, for someone.
I was born into a good family. Too good sometimes, for who I am now.
And Lexy... Lexy is another story.
My childhood friend, my non-biological sister, my crazy and loyal other half for the past twenty years. Her parents – Eric and Cynthia Argent – are my parents' best friends. We basically grew up with two families instead of one. Our house and their house were like two rooms of the same soul.
And yet... of all the things in my life, I have lost some. Sometimes I wonder if I've lost myself too.
It's 6:00 AM.
I light a cigarette, though Mom would beat me with a wooden spoon if she saw me. Then I quickly put it out because I'm out of time. I sling my medical bag over my shoulder and leave the apartment, hurrying down the stairs. My car – a shiny black coupe that Dad calls a "feline on wheels" – waits for me in the parking lot.
I start the engine and get ready to leave, but just before pulling onto the street, my phone vibrates.
Casian: "Did you sleep last night?"
I smile bitterly. I type quickly: "Still breathing, aren't I?"
Casian: "Nova..."
I don't reply. If I do, he'll break me.
On the way to Lexy's house, I try to fix my mind on the day. To be present. Not to get lost in myself.
Lexy appears at the gate with a coffee in her hand, her hair messily tied up, her eyes sleepy. She looks like a grumpy cat woken up too early. And yet she gets in the car laughing.
"You moved fast today," she comments.
"If I'd slept any longer, you'd have woken me up anyway," I reply.
"Eh, the hospital without us is like a circus without clowns."
"I prefer gladiators," I murmur while changing lanes.
"Gladiators with dark circles," she says and throws her bag in the back.
We both laugh, and the tension on my shoulders cracks a little.
When we enter the hospital, the cold, sterile air hits me. The smell of antiseptic wipes away any trace of dreaming. We change into our uniforms, our badges hanging around our necks, the same markers of our doctor identities.
The day hits us hard: a deep cut, a child with a high fever, a woman having a panic attack. A carousel that doesn't stop. Exhausting, but at least it keeps my mind busy.
Yet, somewhere, behind every thought, my family is there.
And Lexy.
And what I've lost.
This is my life: two families that intertwine, two friends laughing about nonsense in the car in the morning and, a few hours later, holding the lives of others in their hands.
And yet, no matter how much I throw myself into today's work, I know I won't escape the conversation tonight. Mom already sent me a message last night: "Saturday, dinner at our place. No excuses." Which, loosely translated, means: Nova, I miss you and I'm catching you somehow.
Around noon, in the middle of the ward's chaos, my phone vibrates in the pocket of my coat. A single name: Dad.
I don't answer. I'm not allowed during the shift, but the truth is I'm not ready. Ryan Lunaris has that warm, slightly husky tone that makes you say things you don't want to say. And today... today I don't feel like having my walls crumble.
Lexy catches me out of the corner of her eye.
"Was it who I think it was?"
"Yep. Dad."
"Hm. He knows how to pick his moments."
"I think he sensed I was breathing normally," I murmur dryly.
Lexy sighs theatrically and pushes her coffee cup toward me.
"Come on, drink. If you're preparing to go to the 'Lunaris Council' tonight, at least have some energy."
"It's not a council. It's just dinner."
"Yeah, sure. And I'm just a little hysterical in the morning."
I laugh. We laugh. She always manages to pull me out of my head.
The hours pass and the hospital swallows us whole: wounds, patients, quick consultations, monitoring, adrenaline, false calm, then alarm again. When we finally finish the shift, I feel the soles of my feet pulsing in my medical clogs.
I step outside, where the evening air is warmer than in the morning. I still hadn't decided if I was going to my parents' house or running straight to bed. But destiny has its own stupid sense of humor.
Casian is waiting for me on the hood of my car.
Leaning casually, arms crossed, as if he appears daily at the end of my shift to pick me up from work. His chestnut hair is tied back, his white shirt is unbuttoned one button too many.
"You're looking at me like I'm an intruder," he says, looking up.
"That's what you are."
"Mom wants you home."
"Great. I assume she sent the cavalry."
"If you need, I'll call Dad too," he jokes.
I approach, tired, but with a weak smile. Casian puts a hand on my shoulder.
"You've lost weight," he says immediately, in his observant style. "And you look more tired."
"Thank you, Sherlock."
"Come home. Lucy made lasagna. It smells up the whole kitchen."
At the mention of Lucy's name, my stomach actually stirs. There's something about the way she cooks... every slice seems loaded with her goodness.
"Is Lexy coming?" I ask.
"Of course. It's full at home. Practically a family meeting," he says ironically, raising an eyebrow.
Lexy appears from behind me, slings her bag over her shoulder, and gives a military salute.
"Reporting: Nova is officially too tired to protest. We can go."
"Perfect," Casian says theatrically.
**
When we arrive home, the lights are on, the gate is open, and Mom's voice can be heard from the kitchen before I even enter the hall. The Lunaris house is like a warm memory: open walls, the smell of food, pictures of Casian and me with lopsided smiles.
"Nova!" Mom exclaims, coming toward me with open arms, but with that gaze that scans everything: fatigue, sadness, anything. "You're here."
"Hi, Mom."
She hugs me to her chest as if she can put the pieces back together with just a gesture.
"I saved the crispy corner of the lasagna for you," Lucy chimes in, coming to me with an angelic smile. "I knew you'd come."
I hug her briefly.
"I love you for that."
"I know," she says proudly.
Dad appears from behind them, calm, with a beer in his hand and the most soothing smile in the world.
"Welcome home, Nova."
In the living room, Lexy's parents are already settled. Eric raises a glass to me.
"Our favorite doctor! Did you escape today?"
"Only physically," I reply.
Cynthia, elegant as always, lightly touches my arm.
"I'm glad you came. I know it's not easy for you."
And in that moment, for the first time today, I feel a part of me relax. A small piece, but a real one. This house, these people... keep me on my feet, even when I don't want to be.
We sit at the table, and conversations ignite immediately: stories from the past, family jokes, teasing between the dads, warm looks between the moms. Lexy rests her head on my shoulder and whispers:
"See? This is why I won't let you sink. You have people."
"Yes... I have people," I whisper back.
But deep in my chest, a void still pulses. The family catches me, holds me, squeezes me. But there is also a place where even they haven't reached.
Yet.
SEE YOU LATER