The five dates

I find it rather amusing how everything in my life turned upside down within a day. For someone like me, who never misses a detail, it's impossible to ignore the glaring oddities about this so-called accident. First of all, why don't I remember getting hit by a truck? And second, why the hell would I be mumbling my doctor's name, a man I probably met just this morning?

"Is this some kind of test?" I ask, frowning.

Doctor Asher doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he sighs deeply and looks away, his expression unreadable. If it weren't for basic politeness, I'd tell him to stop making those annoying faces.

"You'll be discharged in two days, Miss Kemp," he says abruptly, already turning to leave.

But something compels me to speak, and I blurt out, "What I wanted to say is that…"

He pauses mid-step and turns back toward me. The look on his face tells me he's expecting something profound, something life-altering. Asher Lively certainly seems like a man with high expectations.

"Doctor Asher Lively," I begin, taking a deep breath, "I was desperate to live. That's my guess. Maybe that's why I kept calling your name. It's hard to explain, but sometimes I feel this overwhelming urge to live—fully, recklessly, to do thousands of things at once. But then, on other days, it all feels so... pointless. Like everything we do is just noise to fill the silence of this boring life."

I glance at him, searching for any sign of understanding. He's standing there, completely focused, as if he's the only person on earth capable of making sense of my words.

"But sometimes," I continue, "I just want to leave it all behind—this life, my friends, my so-called success—and disappear into the unknown. To live for the unknown. You know why? Because I haven't found a single reason that makes living this life worth it. Not one.

"It's strange, though, because I think about death a lot. I even draw it sometimes, wondering what it feels like, as if it's this... forbidden door I've always wanted to open. But until this morning, I never truly felt death. And it's terrifying. I think there's a difference between choosing death and death choosing you.

"But guess what?" I pause, letting the words sink in. "This time, I didn't choose death. And death didn't choose me either." I say

Every word I say seems to sink into him, but he doesn't offer any reply. His silence makes it clear that this isn't the answer he's looking for—it's completely off track, far removed from whatever he expected.

"Look," I start again, trying to explain, "you said I was conscious, at least a little bit. Maybe I read your name on your badge somehow and called out for you to help me because I was scared. Watching yourself die slowly... it's definitely not easy."

He tilts his head slightly, his expression unchanging. "When I said you were conscious," he begins, his voice calm but firm, "I didn't mean your eyes were wide open, and you were alert enough to read my name. No." He steps closer, and for a moment, the air between us feels heavy.

"You were conscious because you kept saying my name," he continues. "Your mouth was moving, calling out for me, but your eyes—" he points at them, as if to emphasize his words—"they were shut tight. They only opened this morning."

"Guess I need a lawyer to defend me now," I say, laughing lightly. But Dr. Asher doesn't even crack a smile. The way he's looking at me makes it painfully clear—jokes aren't his thing. Of course, it's ridiculous to try humor in front of someone who seems like the poster child for an INTJ personality.

"Dr. Lively." A nurse's voice cuts through the air, and he glances toward the door where she's standing.

"There's a board meeting at sharp four," she says, her tone brisk. Her eyes flick to me briefly, peeking through the crack in the door like she's assessing me for some unknown reason.

"Why so suddenly?" Dr. Asher asks, his brows furrowing.

"Looks like Dr. Stanford is getting fired," she replies, her voice tinged with a hint of satisfaction, as if the news genuinely pleases her.

"Got it," he says curtly, turning his attention back to me. She closes the door but not before throwing me one last glance—one that lingers just long enough to make me wonder what, exactly, it's for.

A long time passes. I don't know how many hours I've been asleep, but I guess they've put me on some meds that led me to a deep sleep. Though I'm not a heavy sleeper, most of my nights are spent wandering around, meeting weird people in crowded cafes, getting to know them, their lives, and then disappearing before it could turn into something deeper, like an instant hookup. I'm not into one-night stands and probably don't even remember the last time I had any sexual activity. But I do enjoy getting involved in aimless conversations with people I barely know.

Like that one day, when a guy wearing a tuxedo in the middle of the night, drinking coffee at Bouffe's Café, told me about how his bride called off the wedding on their wedding day. Apparently, he told her he was an ex-marine—not in a serious way, just because they were making some inside jokes, and he suddenly remembered his time in the marines. The bride got super nervous and called off the wedding, saying she didn't think she knew him well enough to marry him. She couldn't marry someone she felt like she'd just met.

"Well," I told him, "she should've thought about that before saying yes to the marriage. Could've saved a lot of money and, obviously, time."

That's one of the crazy things about those wild nights. Another is how I can paint my hands and fingers in colors and spread them across a blank page, creating nothing but a miracle. Art is like a melody to me; it's what I worship.

But even though it keeps me awake, it's not the reason I live for. It's not what I'm searching for to make life complete. Lily says it's love, but I'm not sure.

Love isn't the greatest thing of all. It's not something that will make me fall asleep, dreaming of waking up the next morning to find someone lying beside me in bed, making me believe I'm lucky to live for this person in this shitty, shitty world.

Oh, Jesus.

"It's a very nice restaurant. I've been thinking about it for a long time," a girlish voice reaches my ears. Even though I'm fully awake, I don't think it's the right time to open my eyes, so I just pretend to be asleep.

"This weekend, I have a free schedule," Dr. Asher's voice responds. Suddenly, there's a painful sensation in my wrist, like Dr. Asher just put a needle through my veins. I try not to react, clenching my teeth tightly to suppress any reaction.

"You always say that. Now, free is only a myth for me, and it's been a month since we had our first date..." Oh, dating in the workplace? Definitely tuning in. Go ahead.

"I guess I just might have to wait until next year for my second date, and then we'll never even complete three dates. I'm not even counting five," the girly voice snaps. She sounds annoyed now. Angry, but more disappointed.

Whoever she is, does she really have a right to get this mad at Dr. Asher? Or is she actually his girlfriend? Well, he doesn't strike me as the type to date someone from work.

"I'll make it happen. All four of them, this month," he says, his voice reassuring and gentle.

"I'm believing in you. Again. Don't break my heart this time." Now her voice turns into total cringe. I'm bored now. They should probably wrap it up soon so I can finally take the deep breath I've been holding for so long.

My fingers curl tightly as I resist the urge to move. I crack my left eye open for a second, just enough to see the nurse. The same nurse who was staring at me earlier. Long curly brown hair, hazel-green eyes, and rosy lips. Too pretty to be a nurse.

I open both eyes the moment I hear the door close, but to my surprise, Dr. Asher is still sitting at my bedside, scribbling in his notepad, so focused he doesn't even notice I'm awake.

"Is dating even allowed here?" I ask. He glances at me, unbothered by my sudden wake-up.

"It is, as far as I know," he replies, his tone calm and natural.

"That's cool. You know, some workplaces don't allow it."

"How about yours? Do they allow it?" he asks.

"Of course. It's a publishing company—Artimia's Publishers," I say.

"Never heard of them," he responds casually, brushing it off as he returns to his notepad.

"So, what's her name?" I ask.

"Vanessa Raymond," he answers without hesitation.

"I don't think you like her that much," I remark.

"You don't know me, and you don't know her," he replies firmly.

"Be more polite to your patients. Even when they're losing it, you should be polite, calm, and attentive. Isn't that what they teach you in med school?" I ask sarcastically.

"They teach us to treat people. Being polite is out of the question. Get treated, go home," he says bluntly.

"I hope no one ever has to get treated by you," I say.

"Miss Kemp, for now, just focus on yourself and your health. If you do that, I'd be very happy to announce that you'll be discharged in three days," he says.

"That's a relief," I reply.

"Sure it is," he says.

"And also, can you... call my sister... I... I..."

That's it. It's happening again. This thing that happens every time I wake up. Suddenly, everything goes blurry, and the voices around me just stop, as if the whole world falls silent. My tongue refuses to move at all, and within a second, I slip back into the dark.