Page 7 of Wistful Whispers
Thelabhums.
Postdocs whispering, machines blinking, breakthroughs on every screen, neural mapping and AI-assisted decision-making models.
None of it touches me.
Not since…
I used to believe I could change lives.
Now I sit during my R4 research year watching data scroll by, wishing I could go back in time.
Wondering, as I do every day, if I’d done something—said something else.
Goddammit. I feel so fucking useless.
Nothing holds my attention the way it should. Months ago, when I submitted my research proposal, I thought I’d be thrilled to step away from the brutal pace of residency. To immerse myself in something groundbreaking.
Nope. I can’t bring myself to give a shit.
Each day I stare blankly at the ECoG data in front of me, watching brain wave patterns light up on the screen. Cortical representation of fine motor movements—important work, as it relates to alcoholism, supposedly.
I’d hoped it would be a distraction. A way to keep myself from thinking about the one person I failed so spectacularly.
Miranda Black.
Her name has been carved into my brain since the moment I walked out of the OR and her parents looked at me with shattered eyes, begging for an explanation I didn’t have.
How is this fair? Me staring at neural pathways while she lies in a bed somewhere, locked inside herself…
Fuck.
I scrub a hand over my face, exhaling hard.
“What’s with you today?” A familiar voice jolts my attention to the present.
I glance up. Sarah Patel, one of the postdocs I work with on a daily basis, stands in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You’ve been staring at the screen for an hour,” she scolds. “Either you’ve figured out the secrets of the universe or you’re slowly losing your mind.”
I smirk, though there’s no real humor behind it. “The latter.”
She leans against the desk, looking at me a little too closely. “You know, when you presented your research proposal last year, I thought you’d actually be interested in it.”
“I was back then,” I say glumly.
Sarah folds her arms across her chest. “What changed?”
Everything.
She doesn’t know about Miranda. Few people do. Surgeons lose patients every day, it’s not even a normal topic of conversation. We’re trained to compartmentalize and move on. I rub my temple with my thumb. “Eh—a little distracted.”
“Hmmmm.” Sarah studies me for a beat before shaking her head. “Try not to burn out so soon.” She pushes off the desk. “We need you on the fMRI analysis later.”
Annoyed, I wave her off and watch as she disappears down the hall.
She’s not wrong, though. I am burning out. Not on the research—on my life.
I used to know exactly what I wanted. I came into medicine to study the brain. Originally, it was about addiction, about understanding what had turned my father into the man who nearly destroyed my family with his alcoholism and violent temper.
