Be My Valentine

Rooftop Reflections: Between Heartbeats and Hope - Tina Cyr

Rooftop Reflections: Between Heartbeats and Hope - Tina Cyr

Song: Norah Jones, Come Away with Me

It’s 7 PM for my dinner during the evening shift at the NICU. For years, the constant beeping of monitors and low murmurs in the hospital halls have been my everyday background noise, a mix of rush and recovery. Yet, today, each beep and murmur resonate deeper, echoing the hollow space where joy used to live, leaving my skin feeling tight and uncomfortably foreign.

I shuffle through the corridor, my scrubs tight across my shoulders. Each step feels like wading through a current, the day’s weight a tangible force, bending my shoulders, clouding my vision. The image of the motionless body haunts my every step, the weight of an unfinished life pressing against my chest. Not just a name on a chart but a life extinguished too soon. I’ve seen too much of this – the fragility of life – but it never gets easier.

I remember the day I decided to become a nurse. Standing in the sterile hospital room where my grandmother lay, I watched a nurse—her name tag read ‘Susan’—work tirelessly, her touch gentle, her words soothing. In that moment, a sense of purpose washed over me. But now, years later, I wonder if that purpose has cost me the joy of living a life less burdened.

Pushing open the door to the rooftop, I step into the embrace of the evening air. The city below buzzes. I walk to the edge, looking out over the skyline. The sky’s blaze feels almost indecent. A lavish painting hung in a room where grief whispers in every corner.

“Another day, another loss,” I mutter, leaning on the railing. Once an eager drummer leading the charge to heal, my heart now thuds a reluctant, heavy rhythm, dragging its beats like chains through my chest. “Is this all there is for me?”

Up here, the chaos of the hospital fades into a distant murmur, allowing me to shed the heavy cloak of Nurse Emily and just be Emily, if only for a fleeting moment. But even here, doubts and what-ifs swirl in my mind.

I recall the night I held a newborn, reviving him with my breaths, the weight of his tiny body both a burden and a miracle in my arms. That night, I was a hero. But tonight, as the echo of a flatline lingers, I feel like a ghost among the living, watching the relentless cycle of life and death spin, and I was unable to stop it or even slow it down.

I’ve missed birthdays, anniversaries, and countless gatherings, all in the name of duty. Each beep of the monitor is a reminder of the time slipping through my fingers, each tick of the clock marking moments not lived but lost.

What if I had chosen differently? A life with someone, a family of my own? I sometimes dream of a different life, one whose laughter lines outmatch those from frowning behind a mask.

I went from University to practice. I’ve never been very social, so I spend time with my cat, Brownie, at home. Or I’m at the hospital working. It’s hard to find Mr. Right in either of those places.

A cool breeze brings the city’s heartbeat to me - a distant siren, a burst of laughter, life moving beyond these walls. From this height, the city’s pulse thrums, a steady, indifferent rhythm, unbroken by the stutters and stops within these hospital walls. I think of the young man who won’t go home, of his family’s grief-stricken faces. It’s a burden I carry home every night, an invisible companion.

A noise behind me breaks my reverie. Turning, I see a man in a wheelchair a few feet away. His hair, a silver not earned by years but by trials, whispers stories of life’s harsh turns. He’s in a wheelchair with one leg extended in front of him. I wonder what happened. He wears a patient’s gown that doesn’t do much to hide the tattoos on his neck and forearms. His smile, an attempt at charm, falters before it can cradle his eyes, leaving them untouched, unwarmed by the gesture.

*Jake POV*

I’ve been settled in my room for a few hours and already have cabin fever. How did this happen? How did my life become such a mess?

I need to get out of here. I need some fresh air. I’m sure I can find a way to the rooftop. The sun must be setting at this time.

I roll slowly in the hallways, trying to orient myself in the hustle and bustle of this busy hive.

I eventually find an elevator that has the option rooftop, and finally, I can get some fresh air.

As I roll out of the elevator, I notice a woman standing by the ledge. She seems pensive.

I think I startled her. Maybe I shouldn’t be here? I wonder as I slowly roll myself closer to her.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I say, my voice warm.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she blurts out.

Her words land like a physical blow, a sudden chill that tightens around my chest and squeezes.

“I’ll go back. I didn’t mean to intrude…” I murmur, my voice carrying a resignation that surprised me. I start to wheel myself back, each turn of the wheels feeling heavier, like I’m moving away from a newfound possibility.

“No, no…” she interjects hastily, her sigh heavy with weariness. She runs her hands over her face, and I can see the day’s burdens etched into her features, pressing down on her like an invisible weight.

“Don’t go,” she whispers, her soft voice laden with the day’s sorrows. “It’s been…”

“A long shift?” I venture, my voice gentle, attempting to bridge the gap her initial words had created.

“Not even. I’m only 3 hours in…” the woman confesses, her voice a mere whisper, heavy with the gravity of her following words. “But we lost a patient.” The words linger in the air, heavy and sorrowful, a stark reminder of the fragility of life that’s all too familiar to both of us.

Her words touch a tender spot within me, a quiet understanding blossoming in the shared ground of our losses.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly, my gaze meeting hers, reflecting a well of understanding and shared grief. In that moment, the space between us seems to shrink, bridged not just by physical proximity but by our shared acquaintance with loss and pain.

“I’m Jake,” I continue, rolling my wheelchair closer but respecting the distance. “I guess we’re both escaping tonight.”

My frankness seems to disarm her. “I’m Emily,” she replies, a hint of a smile touching her lips. “And yes, this is my escape.”

I position my wheelchair beside her, facing the sunset. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Makes you forget, just for a moment, where we are.”

Emily nods. “It does. It makes everything seem... possible.”

We sit in silence, the fading light casting long shadows.

“So, what brings you to the rooftop?” Emily asks, her curiosity getting the better of her.

I let out a half-smile. “This roof? Just thinking. The hospital? A mountain bike accident, and I’ve got surgery tomorrow. Life’s funny with its curveballs, huh?”

I can tell my words resonate with her. Curveballs. That’s what life has been throwing at her, too, only she has been too busy catching them to notice their weight.

Before the crash, my bike was my escape, my way of outrunning the chaos of betrayal. But as I lay on the ground that day, the world spinning around me, I realized there was no outrunning the chaos within. That fall didn’t just fracture my leg; it shattered the illusion that I could simply pedal away from my problems.

*Emily POV*

“Yeah, life is unpredictable,” I say, my gaze returning to the sunset. “You plan, work hard, and still, things don’t always turn out how you expect.”

“So, Emily, what made you choose nursing?” Jake asks, his voice is rich with genuine curiosity. I sense his intrigue, the way he looks at me as if trying to read the layers beneath my composed exterior.

I lean back, letting my gaze drift to the stars, their soft light casting a glow on my thoughts. “I guess I wanted to make a difference, you know? To touch lives,” I begin, feeling a hint of melancholy seeping into my voice. “But sometimes, I wonder if I’ve given up too much for it.”

He nods, a gesture of understanding that feels almost too profound. “I get that. We chase dreams but sometimes forget to live in the process.” His words resonate with me, a truth that I’ve felt but never voiced.

Emboldened, I reveal a part of myself long tucked away. “I used to paint,” I admit, feeling a wistful smile play on my lips. “But life, work... it all got in the way.”

“Life does have a way of getting in the way,” he muses.

*Jake POV*

“Tell me, Jake,” Emily says, pointing at my leg. “That seems a pretty extensive injury. What happened? It was your first Mountain Bike experience?”

I’m insulted! “Hell no,” I put a hand over my mouth. “Pardon my French.”

We both laughed.

“Ok, so you’re an experienced Mountain Biker?” she asked.

I open up about my passion for mountain biking, feeling the need to share this part of my life with her. “It’s more than a sport for me. It’s where I feel most alive, most connected to the world,” I explain, watching her reaction closely.

“I’ve been doing this for at least 7-8 years; I go out a couple of times per week. Well, any chance I get, really.” I muse, lost in the memories of that stupid slip that landed me here.

“So?” she asks.

“It’s stupid, really. Like with any other accident. I was distracted. I went out when the terrain was slippery, and my mind was distracted…” I trailed off.

She listens intently, and I sense a stirring within her—a recognition, a shared sentiment. It’s a connection, however fleeting, that feels significant in this moment.

“Distracted?” she asks, leaning in.

My voice softens as I delve into my story’s more personal, painful parts. “I thought I had it all figured out. But then, everything changed. It made me question everything I believed about love, about trust,” I confess, feeling the weight of my words hang between us.

Since the accident, my dreams have been less about conquering mountains and more about finding level ground. I yearn for simple, honest connections and a fresh start. Yet, the fear lingers—will my heart, like my leg, always bear the fracture lines of past injuries, or can it, too, find a way to heal and trust again?

I notice her reaction, a twinge in her eyes mirroring my own. It’s a shared pain, a mutual understanding that seems to bridge the gap between our worlds.

“What happened?” she asks.

Should I share? This is silly. I don’t want to burden her. But she seems genuinely interested and concerned.

Since the day I discovered the affair, each friendly gesture has felt like a potential deception, every intimate moment a prelude to another betrayal. I used to be the guy who trusted first and doubted later. Now, skepticism is my unwanted shadow, turning every handshake into a potential knife in the back.

*Emily POV*

I shouldn’t have asked that. It’s none of my business. But he intrigues me so much. I feel a pull towards him. Something I don’t remember ever experiencing.

Jake nods, his eyes reflecting a well of understanding, but I see his shoulders slump. “I was supposed to get married next week. But, well,” he sighs, “let’s just say life had other plans.”

His vulnerable tone takes me by surprise, stirring something in me. Here is a man about to undergo surgery, more worried about his broken heart than his broken body.

Curiosity gets the better of me, both as a nurse and just... me. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

He pauses, takes a deep breath, and then the words start flowing. “My fiancée cheated on me with my best friend. I needed to blow off some steam, and that’s how I ended up in a mountain bike accident.”

“That’s tough, I’m sorry,” I reply, my tone softer. The nurse in me wants to comfort him, but the woman in me is curious. “Do you regret it? Getting engaged? The bike ride in the heat of the moment?”

“Every day. But then, some days, I think maybe there’s something else out there for me. Maybe the best is yet to come.” Jake’s laughter comes out more as a scoff, a bitter melody that dances with the shadows in his eyes, playing a tune of disillusionment and what-could-have-beens.

“It’s hard, isn’t it? To trust again after being hurt,” the words hang between us, each a mirror to our bruised histories. In her eyes, I see the reflection of my own guarded heart, wary of the leap from the cliff of trust once more. In the soft illumination of the stars, our shared vulnerabilities connect us in a way that words alone cannot fully express.

Our eyes meet, and the world tilts slightly, a current zipping through me, electric and terrifying in its newness. Hope? Understanding? I’m not sure.

“You sound like someone who hasn’t given up,” I observe, my voice tinged with a curiosity I haven’t felt in years.

Jake shrugs. “Maybe I’m just an eternal optimist. Or maybe I’m just scared to give up.”

We sit silently for a moment, enjoying the sun’s fading glow.

Suddenly, Jake pivots his wheelchair, the movement deliberate. His face is a canvas of conflict, brush strokes of hesitation underlain with the subtle hues of hope.

“Emily, this might sound crazy, but would you want to meet again outside this hospital? Maybe continue this conversation over coffee?” he asks.

His words catch me off balance, and my stomach does a precarious dance, a flutter of wings against the cage of my ribs, awakening sensations long buried under the sediment of routine. Romance, for so long a closed book in my life, its pages gathering dust, now seems to crack open before me, its pages fluttering in the breeze of possibility.

I would like that. Before I get a chance to answer, the shrill cry of my pager shatters the fragile bubble we’ve created, a rude reminder that reality waits for no one, not even those teetering on the edge of newfound connections. My eyes widen in alarm. The ICU needs me. Duty calls, as it always does, relentless and unyielding.

“I have to go,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m sorry, I...”

Jake’s expression shifts to one of understanding, tinged with disappointment. “I get it. Duty calls,” he says, his smile warm but touched with wistfulness.

I hesitate, torn between my professional obligations and the unexpected promise of something more. I look at Jake, his silver hair reflecting the moonlight, his eyes full of hope and questions.

“Some other time,” I say with chagrin.

With a final glance, I turn and hurry away, my footsteps echoing on the rooftop. The door snaps shut behind me, like the closing of a book on a chapter yet to be finished.

As I rush through the hospital corridors, my mind is a whirlwind. Back to the ICU, where beeps and urgency are the relentless tide, I swim against. Yet my thoughts linger on the rooftop, on Jake, on the possibility of a coffee date that feels so ordinary yet extraordinary.

A thought strikes me - how will I ever find him again?

The author details are just below. As a fun extra we have a spotify playlist! Each author chose a song for their piece. Does this short story remind you of a song? Or is there a romantic song that captures your heart? Leave a song and artist in the comments and (if it’s on spotify) it will be added to the play list.

Author Pen name

Tina Cyr

Author Works

The Lost Werewolf’s Mate, on DREAME

(https://dreame.onelink.me/mOD1/5u5o7s54)

The Witch and the Wolf, on DREAME

(https://www.dreame.com/story/3387906560)

Redeeming the Broken Dragon, on DREAME

(https://www.dreame.com/story/1446074880)

A Solstice Luna Ceremony (Novelette), on DREAME

(https://www.dreame.com/story/1995070208)

Snow-Whispered Memories, soon on INKITT

(https://www.inkitt.com/tina946)

Author groups/websites/pages

Fac.e.book page: https://www.fa.ce.book.com/tina.cyr.author

Fac.e.book group: Tina Cyr’s Coffee Room (https://w**************m/groups/579778767230437)

Instag.ram: tina_cyr

Lin.ktree: tina.cyr

TikT.ok: tinacyr77

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