Page 54 of Dr. Lillian Harrington
Rebecca wanted to argue, wanted to push back, to say that she was there for Lillian. But she knew it wasn’t true. Not in the way Lillian needed. Not in the way that counted. And as much as she wanted to fight for this, for them, she couldn’t bring herself to step out from behind the walls she had built.
"So, what, you need me to be more emotional? More vulnerable?" Rebecca shot back, her voice defensive. "Is that really it? You want me to be someone I’m not?"
Lillian sighed, shaking her head, her exhaustion spilling over. "I’m not asking you to be someone you’re not. I’m asking you to let me in. To let me be a part of your life. But you keep shutting me out, Rebecca. And I can’t keep doing this if it’s always going to be like this, if you’re always going to keep me at arm’s length."
Rebecca clenched her jaw, her mind racing. She knew Lillian was right, but admitting it felt impossible. She couldn’t let herself be vulnerable. She had spent her whole life keeping people at a distance, protecting herself from the pain of connection. And now, that defense mechanism was costing her the one person she didn’t want to lose.
"I don’t know how to do that," Rebecca said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. It was the closest she had come to admitting the truth.
Lillian’s gaze softened, but the sadness in her eyes deepened. "I know," she said quietly. "But I can’t be the only one trying. I need someone who wants to meet me halfway."
Rebecca opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Her chest felt tight, her mind scrambling for a way to fix this without letting down the walls she had built. But she couldn’t find one. And so, instead of reaching out, instead of fighting for what they had, she stayed silent.
Lillian’s face fell slightly, as if she had been holding out hope that Rebecca would say something, that she would change her mind. But when it became clear that Rebecca wouldn’t—or couldn’t—Lillian stepped back.
"I’m sorry," Lillian said, her voice breaking slightly. "But I deserve more than this."
Rebecca watched as Lillian turned toward the door, her body tense with the weight of the decision she was making. Rebecca’s heart screamed at her to say something, to stop Lillian from leaving. But she remained frozen, unable to let herself be vulnerable, even when it mattered most.
The door clicked shut behind Lillian, and the apartment fell into an eerie silence.
Rebecca stood there, staring at the empty space where Lillian had been. Her arms, still crossed, now felt like a cage, keeping her trapped in the cold, isolated world she had built for herself. The moment replayed over and over in her mind: Lillian’s plea for more, her inability to give it.
She had let her walk away.
And now, the silence felt permanent.
Rebecca sat on the couch, the silence of the apartment pressing in on her like a physical weight. The sound of Lillian’s departure still echoed in her ears, the soft click of the door closing marking the end of something she hadn’t been ready to lose. But now, it was gone. And she had let it happen.
She leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, her hands loosely clasped as she stared at the floor. The coldness she had relied on for so long and the walls she had built to protect herself felt like they were suffocating her now. Lillian was gone, and Rebecca couldn’t stop the crushing realization that it was her own emotional distance that had driven her away.
Her chest tightened as the weight of her regret settled in. She had spent years perfecting the art of keeping people at arm’s length, keeping her emotions buried deep, but it was those same defenses that had cost her the one person she didn’t want to lose. She had convinced herself professionalism was necessary, that vulnerability would somehow make her weaker, less capable. But now, all she felt was emptiness.
Rebecca’s eyes drifted to her phone on the table. She reached for it hesitantly, opening her messages. Her thumb hovered over Lillian’s name, over the last string of texts. The warmth that used to exist in their conversations, the teasing and lighthearted banter—it was all there, preserved in the words she couldn’t bring herself to delete.
She scrolled up through old messages, each one a painful reminder of what they’d had and what she’d thrown away. The way Lillian had made her laugh in quiet moments, how she had found ways to crack Rebecca’s icy exterior with just asmile or a joke. Now, the messages felt like ghosts, distant and unreachable.
“I could have fixed this,” Rebecca muttered to herself, her voice barely audible in the silence. She could have stopped Lillian from walking away if she had just opened up, if she had just told her how much she meant. But instead, she’d let the fear of being vulnerable keep her from saying anything. And now, it was too late.
She set the phone down, rubbing her hands over her face. The loss felt too big, too painful to ignore, but for someone who had spent her entire life avoiding emotional pain, Rebecca didn’t know how to navigate this heartbreak. It wasn’t something she could fix with precision and skill, like a surgical error. This was messier, deeper. And it scared her more than anything.
The days following the breakup blurred together in a haze of routine. Rebecca threw herself back into her work, more focused and precise than ever. She spent hours in surgery, moving from one procedure to the next with almost mechanical efficiency. The rest of the team could sense the shift—Rebecca had always been driven, but now there was a noticeable coldness in her demeanor. The walls she had built around herself had only grown stronger.
She barked orders in the OR with clipped efficiency, never letting any emotion slip through. She had convinced herself that work was where she thrived, that if she could stay focused on her career, she could bury the pain of losing Lillian. But no matter how much she tried, the hollowness inside her wouldn’t go away.
Colleagues avoided small talk with her now, sensing the change. Rebecca had never been the most approachable, but thiswas different. She was more distant, more unapproachable, and it was impossible not to notice. Every interaction felt forced and detached, as if she was just going through the motions.
Occasionally, she saw Lillian in the hospital hallways, her heart tightening with every passing glance. Lillian looked tired, but she still carried that quiet strength that had drawn Rebecca to her in the first place. They didn’t speak. Rebecca kept her distance, maintaining the professional mask she wore so well, but every time their eyes met, it was like a knife twisting in her chest.
She could see the sadness in Lillian’s eyes, the unspoken pain of what had happened between them. And yet, Rebecca still couldn’t bring herself to approach her, to say the words she had kept buried for so long. The regret sat heavy in her chest, but she shoved it down, retreating into the one thing she knew how to control—her work.
It was late when Rebecca sat in her office, the hospital quiet around her. The sterile white walls felt like they were closing in, and for once, the solitude of the office offered no comfort. She leaned back in her chair, staring blankly at the paperwork in front of her. The words blurred together, meaningless. Her thoughts were elsewhere, stuck replaying the breakup in her mind, over and over.
She closed her eyes, wishing she had said something different, wishing she had fought for Lillian instead of retreating behind her cold exterior. But now, the emptiness felt permanent. She had let her go. She had stood there, watching Lillian walk out the door, and had done nothing to stop it.
The regret gnawed at her. Rebecca had spent so much of her life pushing people away, telling herself it was easier that way, safer. But now, sitting alone in her office, the weight of that decision felt unbearable. She wondered if she was doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again—pushing people away because she didn’t know how to let them in.
Her phone buzzed softly on the desk, but she didn’t reach for it. She couldn’t. Instead, her mind drifted to Lillian again, to the thought of reaching out to her, of saying something—anything—to fix what she had broken. But the fear of vulnerability held her back, just as it always had.
