Page 62 of We Can Stay
Cat stretches, extending one paw to rest against my thigh, and I absently stroke her soft fur. The repetitive motion is soothing, grounding me in this moment instead of letting my mind spiral into all the ways I’m failing.
The truth is, I’m burning out. Have been for months, maybe longer. But admitting that feels like admitting defeat, and I’ve never been good at that. I’ve always been the one who handles things, who pushes through, who finds solutions.
Except now I’m running on fumes, and I can feel myself starting to crack.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I tense until I see it’s from Rach:
Everything’s fine at the clinic. Stop worrying and focus on your girl.
I smile despite myself. Rach knows me too well.
Another text follows:
Seriously, Sebastian. The island won’t collapse if you take a few hours off. We’ve got this.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’ve built my entire identity around being needed, being essential, being the one who never says no. The one who works the extra shifts, takes the difficult cases, pushes himself past reasonable limits because the work matters.
Sitting here in Flick’s quiet living room, with Cat purring against my leg and rain pattering against the windows, I’m forced to confront an uncomfortable truth: I don’t know who I am when I’m not in motion.
The emergency clinic is in full chaos mode when I walk through the door an hour later. The waiting room overflows with worried pet owners, their animals in various states of distress. The familiar scents and noises ground me, and despite my exhaustion, something in me shifts into gear.
This is where I know myself. Where the decisions are clear-cut and the purpose is unquestionable.
“Room one,” Rach calls out the moment she spots me, not even pausing her phone conversation. She holds up a piece of paper with one word scrawled across it: “Chocolate.”
I nod and head straight for the exam room, already mentally running through chocolate toxicity protocols. Inside, a yellow Lab lies on the floor next to his owner’s feet, panting and anxious.
“He got into my daughter’s Halloween candy,” the woman explains, wringing her hands. “At least a few of the fun-size bars. I didn’t know how serious?—”
“You did the right thing bringing him in,” I assure her, already beginning my examination. The Lab, whose collar reads ‘Buddy,’ gives me a hopeful look that clearly says he’d do it again given the chance.
The next three hours blur together in a familiar rhythm. Examine a cat with conjunctivitis. X-ray a limping Border Collie who turns out to have been hit by a car—thankfully just bruising, no breaks. Stitch up a German Shepherd who got too enthusiastic about jumping a fence.
For a while, I lose myself in the work. The adrenaline carries me, each successful treatment a small victory against the chaos. This is what I’m good at. This is where I make a difference.
But as the night wears on and the waiting room stays persistently full, the exhaustion I’ve been holding at bay starts seeping through the cracks. My normally steady suture work takes twice as long. The fluorescent lights feel too bright, too harsh.
I’ve already put in a full day at my regular practice and an evening taking care of Flick. And now here I am, on my feet for what will likely be another six hours, pretending my body isn’t screaming for rest.
Between patients, I lean against the counter in the med room and close my eyes for just a moment. When did it become so hard to simply exist in my own skin?
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.
My stomach drops. Flick. What if she needs me? What if her flare has worsened? What if?—
But when I pull out my phone, it’s not Flick’s name on the screen. It’s Lil.
Three missed calls and a text:
Need to discuss the land payment. Call me.
The words swim in front of my tired eyes. A piercing pain shoots through my temple, and I grip the counter’s edge. This is it. The moment where everything I’ve been juggling finally comes crashing down.
“How many more in the waiting room?” I ask Rach, who’s appeared in the doorway with another chart.
She studies me for a moment, and I see the concern flash across her face before she answers. “Actually? None. We just cleared the last one.”
I lift my head, blinking in confusion at the empty waiting room beyond her shoulder. How did I miss that? I’ve been so focused on just getting through each case that I didn’t notice the gradual emptying of the space.
