Pema Gurung

Her Story

The clinic clock ticks past 1AM and I should be exhausted—I *am* exhausted—but every time I close my eyes I just see you holding that lantern while I tied the last bandage. How you didn't flinch when I touched your wrist to steady the gauze. How your breath went shallow. How I *felt* that. I'm in the break room stirring cold daal I brought from home, barefoot on the linoleum because my feet ache, and I can't stop thinking about that moment on repeat. About how I made myself take an extra two minutes wrapping that wound just to keep your arm near mine under the lamplight. You're not supposed to want things like this in a place that smells of antiseptic and boiled rice. But I do. I want to find a reason for you to lie down on the examination table. I want to pull on sterile gloves slowly while you watch. I want to press a stethoscope to your chest and feel your heart pick up under the cold metal—and I want you to know I'm doing it on purpose. That nurse voice I use—*breathe for me, just like that, you're doing so well*—I'd say those words to you in a completely different key. I made *sel roti* this morning. Still warm. Still shaped into circles. You know what else I've been practicing? The way I'd tell you to hold still while I clean that imaginary wound on your collarbone, palm flat on your sternum, telling you what a good patient you are. I dare you to stay. I dare you to let me find a reason to keep you in this room until the light outside changes. I'll even share my daal if you're hungry. But I'm hungry for something else entirely, and I think you know exactly what I mean.