Page 95 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

“Ruby?”

“Yeah?”

“Save a spot for me in the garden.”

She exhaled. “Always.”

The call ended, but the moment didn’t. I sat there for a long time, holding the phone to my heart and the daisy between my fingers.

Then I drove to the hospital one last time.

Inside, the lights buzzed sterile and bright. My steps echoed through the corridors that used to feel like home. At the front desk, I handed over my ID badge.

The nurse behind the counter looked surprised. “You sure?”

I nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

As I turned to leave, I slipped the daisy back into my pocket, pressing it close to the place that had finally started to bloom.

Chapter twenty-five

Ruby

The garden was quiet—too quiet. Late afternoon sunlight spilled over the petals like honey, warm and golden, but I sat frozen on the bench, a pen balanced between my fingers, a blank journal page staring back at me like it had all the answers I was too afraid to ask.

Beside me, my award from the competition gleamed faintly in its polished glass case.Innovation & Impact.Words that once filled me with pride now echoed in my mind with a tinge of uncertainty. Because how do you celebrate a victory when your heart feels... half-present?

Hazel walked up the path with a basket of fresh herbs, her apron smeared with soil and calm wisdom.

“You haven’t moved in twenty minutes,” she said, setting the basket on the table. “I’ve seen garden statues with more animation.”

I let out a small laugh, but it died quickly.

She glanced at the open journal. “Trying to write?”

I nodded. “Trying. Failing. Rethinking my entire existence.”

Hazel dropped onto the bench beside me and plucked the pen from my fingers. “You know,” she said, spinning it slowly between her fingers, “a lot of people wait for the perfect words. The big, sweeping moment. But real love? Real healing? That comes when we stop waiting.”

I looked at her, my heart full. “I want to tell him everything. But I’m scared it won’t come out right.”

Hazel smiled. “Then don’t wait for it to be perfect. Just write what’s true. Create the moment yourself.”

She stood and walked back toward the porch, leaving me with the pen, the journal, and the hollow ache in my chest that only had one name.

Damien.

I stared at the page a little longer. Then finally, finally, I let the words come.

Dear Damien,

I don’t know where to start. So maybe I’ll begin at the moment I realized I loved you.

It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t come with fireworks or epic music swelling in the background. It was quiet. Gentle.

I fell for you in the space between arguments. In the way you mumbled apologies you didn’t know how to say out loud. In the quiet grace you showed my chaos. In the way you fixed broken things—plants, hearts, your own wounds—even when you were the one cracked open.

You taught me that love doesn’t have to be a thunderstorm. It can be a garden after the rain. Wild, unruly, breathtaking.

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