Borders & Rules

Chapter 14

"We do know each other."

I am just about to leave this uncomfortably intimate meeting, which has transformed into an open exchange of stories and feelings after a speech of LGBTQ rights. I turn around, see him walking towards me with these broad shoulders and arrogant eyes. Oh god. "You probably have a lot of patients."

"You were one of my patients?" he asks, stepping beside me, his brows knitting. "I feel like I would remember that."

"It's been two years now."

"What was the issue?" His voice is surprisingly calm now.

I glance away. "Just... a mental health issue."

This confession is vulnerable for me. Being mentally ill is not something someone's usually comfortable about admitting. He turns silent. Unfortunately, this man has the intimidating tendency to pause and stare when he's deep in thought. And these terrifying, dark eyes...

"Uhm... You held my hand during the blood draw," I add to make it clearer, but apparently, I make it worse. He tilts his head as if I've spoken utter nonsense, as if such an event couldn't have happened. "I mean, I was a kid. I was scared of the needle and I passed out."

Realization dawns in his big, brown eyes. A finger points at me, lifting from a paper cup of black coffee. "Philosophy and ethics classes!" Okay. Well. I didn't expect him to remember that of all things. "Of course! You're the boy who was scared of me!" Bold of him to assume I'm not anymore. But okay.

A warmth creeps up my cheeks as I falter for words.

"Wow," he says. In the corner of my eye, I notice him looking me up and down. "You've grown." Why is it suddenly so hot in here? I air my shirt. The crucial question now: how much does he remember? "Family issues, that was the problem, right?"

I open my mouth in a cold sweat. "You remember..." Is that all you remember??

"You had quite a grip."

"I... was very scared."

"I thought you'd crush my hand."

"Come on... I was a kid..."

"You still are."

"Well, I wouldn't say that," I reply as the embarrassment slowly fades. I hate it when someone calls me a kid. My anger dulls any respect I have for him. "At fifteen, you're practically a teenager. Just three years away from being an adult."

"You consider eighteen adulthood?"

"Absolutely."

"Is that so?" His smile, gentle and attentive, eases my tension. "What do you consider thirty-year-olds?"

"Old." He scoffs. Did he just laugh at me or with me? Did he just... laugh because of something I said? I'm not sure if this man is pissing me off or exciting me, to be honest. "How old are you?"

"Not yet old." I can't help but smile, pressing my lips together to suppress it. I can't help it, his radiant smile is too contagious. "Still got family drama?"

Once again, I avert my eyes. "Well," I respond automatically, as any polite person would. "No, not really."

"Is that so," he says, studying my face intently as if trying to decipher every expression. "Did your parents separate?" Goodness, why is he so interested?

"No... I mean, well, yes, but they've patched things up. It's... going okay at the moment."

"You think that'll last?"

I'm taken aback, blinking in surprise. This man really doesn't mince his words. He has the audacity to say and ask things others would hesitate with. And maybe that's what draws me back.

"Absolutely not," I say, my words now flowing like a waterfall. I find myself spilling my guts, talking about everything—divorce, alcoholism, false promises, judgment, yelling, overwhelming household tasks, loneliness. Yes, I spoke to a complete stranger about my loneliness. Pathetic, isn't it?

This man is different from how I remember him. Something has changed him, I'm certain. Back then, he seemed to care little about anything or anyone. I recall the arrogant way he looked down on me in the elevator. Now? Damn, he listens to me like we've been best friends in the hospital. And maybe that's what's prompting this torrent of conversation from me.

He's definitely a good listener. He's very calm, never interrupts me, and his eyes stay on me the whole time, even when I can't maintain eye contact. He always pays attention, even when it's not his business. I'm just a former patient, and he probably doesn't give a damn about me, but it doesn't matter. It feels so good to say it out loud. Like I'm emptying my mind. And there's something else I want from him, but I have to work my way up there...

„Guys," a woman interrupts at some point, glancing between the two of us. "I'm really sorry, but I have to close the building." That's when I look around, waking up from an intense, undisturbed conversation. Everyone else has left.

"Sorry about that," he says to her, the first thing he's said in ages, checking his watch. "We got carried away." I almost laugh. If anyone got carried away, it's me, not him. But maybe he has been that attentive.

"Can I..." I halt him as he turns. I do not want this encounter to end just yet. It feels reminiscent of that moment back then when I reached for his hand after he already turned away. But I can't let this opportunity slip away. "Uhm, could we meet again?"

His hesitation confirms my insecurities. Why would he want to meet with me? For what reason? He doesn't care; he's just pretending to be interested, like any polite person would.

Eventually, he reaches into his pocket, retrieves his wallet, and hands me a card. "The second number is only for emergencies."

I study the card. Dr. Blair Wilson. He has his own business card. Two phone numbers. A working phone. Hell, of course he does. He's practically a star at his workplace. Damn. 

I press my lips together, shame floods my mind with self-loathing and regret as I realize how popular he is. "Thank you," I mutter, quickly turning around to leave at last.