The code blue had ended in silence.
Ezra stood at the end of the hallway, hands still gloved, the scent of antiseptic clinging to his scrubs like a second skin. The resident didn't say much after the time of death was called—just a nod, a tight clap on the shoulder, and then back to their endless rounds.
It had been a child.
Seven years old.
Sepsis, rapid deterioration, too late.
He'd held the mother's hand as her knees gave out. He had no words, only the brutal rhythm of grief playing between each beat of her cries.
Now, Ezra sat in the stairwell, halfway between the fifth and sixth floors, trying to remember how to breathe.
Talia's shift had ended hours ago.
She was home, barefoot, sipping reheated soup she'd forgotten about until the smell of overcooked garlic filled the apartment. She was halfway through jotting down notes for pharmacology when she noticed the time.
Ezra was late.
Unusually late.
She called him. Straight to voicemail.
Second time—same result.
A familiar ache returned to her chest. She tried to talk herself down. Not every silence meant distance. Not every missed call meant retreat.
But when he hadn't returned a text either, she pulled on a hoodie, grabbed her keys, and headed to the hospital.
She found him exactly where she guessed he'd be.
The stairwell—their old escape during first-year exams, when even the library was too loud. He was sitting hunched over, elbows on knees, hands clasped like he was praying to no one.
He didn't hear her approach.
"Ez?"
His head lifted slowly. His eyes were red, his jaw clenched.
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
She sat beside him without answering. Just leaned into his side, shoulder to shoulder. After a long pause, she slipped her hand into his.
"Was it today?" she asked gently. "Your PICU round?"
He nodded.
She didn't press. Didn't ask for the story. She knew. She'd had her own days like this.
"Child?" she asked softly.
He nodded again.
Talia rested her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry."
Ezra didn't speak for a while. Then, quietly: "I thought I could handle it. I always thought... if I studied hard enough, memorized enough... I'd be ready."
"There's no textbook for that kind of loss."
"No," he whispered. "There isn't."
She didn't offer platitudes. Didn't say it wasn't his fault or you did your best. Some days, even truth felt like too much.
So instead, she just hugged him.
In the dim stairwell, surrounded by echoes of footfalls and fluorescent buzz, she wrapped her arms around him and let him break quietly.
And Ezra, who had held so much for so long, let himself sink into her—grief and all.
"I hate this part," he murmured against her shoulder.
"I know," she whispered. "Me too."
They sat there for a long time. The hallway outside kept moving—doctors and nurses, stretchers, code calls. But in that small space, they created stillness. A pocket of peace between two people who knew what it meant to care so deeply it hurt.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
"Thanks for finding me."
"Always."
He managed a weak smile. "You know this counts as one of our list items, right?"
She blinked. "Which one?"
"Holding each other on the worst day."
Talia snorted. "That wasn't on the list."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coffee shop notebook. Flipped to the back. Scribbled quickly.
#27: Hold each other when the world breaks us.
He passed it to her.
She nodded and added beneath it:
#28: Love each other when we have nothing left to give.
That night, they didn't say much more.
But Talia curled up beside him on the couch while he finally slept.
And though the world had broken a little, they were still whole.
Because this — the staying, the showing up, the hugging when words failed — this was what love really looked like.