Four years of long-distance. I finally bought a ring and booked a flight to Chicago to propose to Matthew. Before the plane touched down, he sent me a text. “Emergency surgery tonight. Might be off the grid for a bit.” I didn’t tell him I had landed. I wanted to surprise him at Chicago Memorial, to show up at his locker with the ring. But a sudden, crippling bout of acute gastroenteritis hit me the moment I stepped into the terminal, and my best friend, Rachel, had to rush me straight into the emergency room instead. While hooked up to an IV, separated from the rest of the ward only by a thin, sterile curtain, I heard Matthew’s voice. “Don’t worry, Darcy. Slight fluctuations in prenatal stats are completely normal.” My heart faltered. I tentatively parted the curtain just a fraction, my knuckles white against the plastic rings. There was Matthew. He was holding a girl with a small, visible baby bump close to his side, studying her ultrasound results with absolute devotion. The nurse smiled warmly. “Dr. Ross is such a wonderful husband. He always comes down to check the charts himself every time his wife has an OB-GYN checkup.” Matthew smiled back, gently adjusting a knit cardigan around the girl’s shoulders. “She’s been having terrible morning sickness. I worry.” I sank back onto my cot, trembling uncontrollably. The velvet box containing the ring I had saved for months to buy him was sitting right there in my purse. As tears began to slip silently down my cheeks, a sudden memory hit me. Over the last four years, whenever Matthew FaceTime’d me, he would always complain about the new intern who had gotten into the residency program through family connections. “Darcy messed up another patient history today.” “She actually cried during a night shift.” “I cannot stand needy girls like her.” The girl he was currently cradling in his arms… Her name was Darcy. … I sat on the hospital bed, the tape over the IV on the back of my hand peeling and wrinkled from my sweat. Rachel came back carrying a paper cup of warm water. Seeing my bloodshot eyes, she instantly grew tense. “How are you feeling? Is the stomach still cramping?” I shook my head, another wave of nausea rolling through me. Behind the thin curtain, Matthew’s voice drifted over again. “We’ll do a follow-up ultrasound. Don’t scare yourself, okay?” Darcy asked him softly, “Matt, don’t you have a surgery tonight?” Matthew let out a soft, reassuring chuckle. “I handed it off to Evans. You’re more important.” My fingers tightened on the rough hospital sheets, my knuckles turning white. My phone buzzed on the pillow. A text from Matthew. It was a photo of the operating room doors. “Just heading into surgery. Talk to you when I’m out.” In the photo, the fluorescent lights were harsh and white, the “Surgery in Progress” sign glowing red. He had probably forgotten that once, when I flew to Chicago to surprise him, I had stood outside those exact double doors for an entire night. I had a fever of 103 that day. I was so weak I couldn’t even get my hotel key card to scan, and the receptionist had to help me to a lobby sofa. I had called Matthew, hoping he could come get me. He said the ER was slammed, his voice dripping with exhaustion. “Emma, I literally cannot leave right now.” “Be a good girl, okay? Just go back to the room and get some rest.” Not wanting him to worry, I had forced myself to sound strong. “It’s fine. I can take care of myself.” It rained in Chicago that night. I spent the hours until dawn hunched over the toilet in the hotel bathroom, vomiting. When he finally came to see me the next morning, he brought nothing but a lukewarm cup of convenience-store coffee. “Yesterday was insane.” I took the coffee, my heart aching with sympathy for the dark circles under his eyes. Looking back now, it was blindingly obvious who he had been busy with. Outside the curtain, a nurse hurried over with a clipboard. “Family of Darcy Ross? We need a signature on the consent form for the repeat scan.” Matthew answered immediately. “I’ll sign it.” The scratch of the pen on paper was sharp and clear. “Family of Darcy Ross.” Those words cut deeper than the physical pain of my stomach spasms. Rachel followed my gaze toward the edge of the curtain, her expression shifting from confusion to cold realization. “That… that doctor. Is that Matthew?” I couldn’t speak. Matthew was already guiding Darcy away. She walked slowly, so he kept his hand flat against her lower back, supporting her weight. When they reached the sliding doors of the ER exit, he stepped forward to catch the door with his shoulder so she wouldn’t have to rush. Watching their retreating figures, a profound sense of absurdity washed over me. The velvet box in my purse felt like a hot coal against my palm. I had planned to wait for his shift to end, then take him to the waterfront where we had our very first date. I had even rehearsed my opening line. “Matthew, four years of long-distance is enough. Let’s get married.” But now, I wouldn’t even get the chance to say it. The ER doctor prescribed some medication and told me to stay for observation for two hours. Rachel sat with me at the quiet end of the corridor. Several times she opened her mouth to speak, but forced herself to look away. I stared down at my phone. The photo of the operating doors was still sitting in our chat. I scrolled up. All the way back to last December. There had been a massive blizzard at the research base in Cape Cod. I had been pulling double shifts for a simulation trial, running on zero sleep and a burning fever. I had texted Matthew: “Can we talk for just a little bit? I really need to hear your voice.” He replied two hours later: “Just got off a brutal shift. Too tired to even move.” “Emma, please don’t distract me right now.” Those words had etched themselves into my mind. Since then, every time I missed him, I would check the clock first. I’d calculate his shift changes, his rounds, the ER schedule at Chicago Memorial. I bottled up my longing, terrified of being a burden or pulling his focus from his exhausting work. Down the hall, two nurses wheeled a mobile IV stand past. One of them was smiling. “Dr. Ross is so incredibly attentive to Darcy. The nurses in OB-GYN practically think of him as a regular.” The other lowered her voice. “Right? I heard she had awful morning sickness last month, and Dr. Ross spent his entire lunch break sitting with her up there.” “But doesn’t he always complain about how needy she is?” “Oh, please. He talks a big game, but his actions speak louder. He treats her like she’s made of glass.” My thumb hovered over the screen. Last December, when Matthew FaceTime’d me, his camera would only show half his face, with the sterile hospital corridor as a backdrop. He had told me Darcy was a nightmare—always crying, messing up charts, and that nobody in the department wanted to supervise her. “Her dad is tight with the Chief of Surgery,” he had sighed. “I can’t exactly ignore her.” And I, naive as I was, had comforted him. “It’s normal to make mistakes starting out. She’s probably just overwhelmed. Don’t be too hard on her.” He had smiled, a soft, weary look on his face. “What would I do without you? You’re always so understanding.” I had cherished that compliment for months. I thought it meant he valued my maturity, that he saw how hard I was trying to support his career from afar. Now I realized that being “understanding” simply made it easier for him to lie. After my observation time was up, Rachel helped me walk over to the billing counter. As we passed the self-service printing kiosk in the maternity ward, a sheet of paper was stuck in the dispenser, the machine emitting a repetitive, high-pitched beep. Rachel reached out to call a nurse, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I caught the name on the screen. “Darcy Ross.” “Gestational Age: 21 weeks.” “Accompanying Family: Matthew Ross.” Below that were several dates of past prenatal visits. “November 3rd.” “December 20th.” “January 16th.” Every single one of those dates was burned into my memory. November 3rd was my birthday. Matthew had texted me that an emergency surgery had come up, sending me a Venmo transfer with a generic “Happy Birthday” message. December 20th was the night of my high fever in the Cape Cod blizzard. January 16th was when I had finally accrued enough leave to visit him, but he told me his residency director had called an unscheduled seminar, urging me not to make the trip. The paper was thin, yet it felt heavy enough to crush me. Rachel saw the color drain from my face and reached out to pull the paper away. “Emma, don’t look at it.” I let go, and the sheet fluttered back against the machine. A nurse came rushing over. “Is this Darcy’s report? She just left it behind.” I took a step back. “I think so.” The nurse didn’t notice my expression, muttering under her breath as she took it, “Honestly, Dr. Ross is usually so meticulous. How did he let her forget this?” She hurried away. I stood there, the dull ache in my stomach slowly fading, replaced by a suffocating tightness in my chest. Four years of long-distance, and I had never once demanded that Matthew spend a single birthday with me. I always told myself that lives were on the line, that being a doctor meant sacrifices. Yet he had all the time in the world to accompany someone else to her prenatal exams. He had all the time in the world to sign her forms on my birthday. By the time we left the hospital, night had fallen. Rachel asked if I wanted to go straight back to the hotel to rest. I told her I wanted to go to the alley behind Chicago Memorial. She didn’t ask why. She just walked with me to that quiet, narrow street. This was where Matthew and I had our very first date in Chicago. Four years ago, when he first started his residency, I had caught a grueling overnight flight from Boston to see him. He had taken me to a small, hole-in-the-wall noodle bar in the alley. I remembered him sitting on a squeaky metal stool, carefully picking the scallions out of my bowl. “Once my residency stabilizes, I’m going to bring you out here to Chicago with me.” I had nodded, believing him. And then I waited. For four years. The noodle bar was still there. The elderly owner saw me and asked how many in our party. Before I could answer, a familiar voice drifted from behind me. “One order of wonton soup, no scallions, please.” I turned around. Darcy was standing a few feet away, a grey knit scarf draped around her neck. I recognized that scarf. Last winter, during the freezing coastal winds at the Cape Cod research base, I had sat under my desk lamp every single night, knitting it stitch by stitch. My fingers had been rubbed raw by the coarse wool, making it painful to slip on my heavy research gloves the next morning. When Matthew received it, he had sent a single text: “The color is a bit too plain, isn’t it?” I thought he hated it. He had never worn it once on our video calls. Now, that very scarf was wrapped around Darcy’s neck, its fringed edges brushing against her swollen stomach. Staring at it, the dam of bitterness and sorrow I had kept bottled up for years finally broke. Tears began to stream silently down my face. Darcy took her takeout container, turning around to find me standing there. She froze, her eyes scanning my hospital wristband before rising to meet my face. “You’re…” I didn’t say a word. But she put the pieces together quickly. “You’re Matt’s girlfriend from Boston, aren’t you?” “The girlfriend from Boston.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. To her, I was just a distant footnote in Matthew’s real life. Darcy bit her lip, a flicker of panic crossing her eyes, though she tried to maintain a polite smile. “Please don’t get the wrong idea. Matt is just taking care of me.” I looked at the scarf around her neck. “Does he usually take care of you using things other people made for him?” Darcy’s smile faltered. Rachel stepped forward, interposing herself. “You stepped into someone else’s relationship and got pregnant. Don’t play the innocent victim now.” Darcy clutched the takeout bag tighter, her voice dropping. “What’s going on between Matt and me is complicated. It’s not as cheap as you think.” Hearing that, I actually wanted to laugh. Matthew had used almost the exact same words. It was during my junior year when Darcy first showed up on our FaceTime screen. She had called out to him from off-camera, complaining that her patient intake notes had been rejected again. Matthew had frowned, turning his phone face-down on the desk. When he picked it back up, he explained, “Just an intern with connections. She’s a nightmare.” “If I don’t help her, she’ll sit in the breakroom crying all night.” Watching his exhausted face through the screen, my heart had ached for him. After that, I stopped calling him in the evenings. I didn’t want him to have to deal with me after being drained by Darcy all day. But every inch of space I conceded only became the room they used to grow closer. As I turned to walk away, Darcy called out to my back. “If you really love him, don’t back him into a corner right now.” My steps faltered. She gently touched her stomach, her voice trembling. “A child needs a father.” I didn’t look back. For the past four years, I had constantly told myself the same things. “A surgeon can’t be distracted.” “I can’t let my needs drag Matthew down.” “We can’t let a little distance ruin us.” But if her child couldn’t live without a father… Did that mean my four years of devotion deserved to end without an answer? Back in the hotel room, I placed the velvet box on the desk. I opened it, the ring catching the sterile light of the hotel room. I had spent weeks searching for it in Boston. The jeweler had asked me who it was for. “My boyfriend,” I had said. She smiled and wished me luck with the proposal. At the time, I truly believed that if I took the initiative to take this final step, our four years of waiting would finally mean something. Matthew always said a doctor’s career was complicated, that we couldn’t rush into marriage. “Let’s wait until I’m an attending,” he’d say. “Let’s wait until your research project wraps up.” “We haven’t even figured out a place in Chicago yet. We can take our time.” And I believed him, time after time. Because I thought he was waiting for the perfect moment, just like I was. A notification popped up on my phone. It was from Matthew. “Just got off. Exhausted.” “Why are you so quiet tonight?” I stared at the two lines of text for a long time, unable to type a reply. In the past, I would have immediately asked if he’d eaten, reminded him to cut back on the espresso, and carefully filtered out any of my own struggles in the lab, leaving only lighthearted, easy updates. I never wanted him to feel like loving me across three thousand miles was a chore. But today, when I woke up in agony on an ER cot, he was only yards away. He hadn’t seen me. He hadn’t looked. He was holding another pregnant woman, worrying about her morning sickness. Rachel sat by the window, pouring me a glass of warm water. “Emma, you still haven’t replied to that confirmation email for the deep-sea project, have you?” I looked up. She was watching me closely. “You told me you didn’t want to sign up for another three years of long-distance.” Yes. After passing the rigorous closed-selection process for the deep-sea manned submersible project, I had hesitated to click “accept.” The project board had given me a final deadline. Once I joined, the first three years would require intensive, isolated training with highly restricted contact with the outside world. I had wanted to see Matthew one last time before making my choice. If he was ready to commit, I was prepared to step away from the program. If he wasn’t, I wanted to hear his honest thoughts on our future. But now, the choice was simple. I opened my laptop and pulled up the email. The confirmation link sat at the top of my inbox. “Please confirm your acceptance of the deep-sea training program within 24 hours.” Below it was the standard disclaimer: “During active training phases, personal communication with the outside world will be suspended, barring extreme emergencies.” I looked at the screen, remembering the hours I spent on the flight to Chicago. I had pulled the ring box out of my bag over and over, drafts of my proposal saved in my notes app. The first draft was too formal. The second was too casual. The third draft was only one sentence: “Matthew, let’s stop loving each other across oceans.” Now I saw that I was the only one navigating the distance. His life in Chicago was never lonely. Darcy kept him company on night shifts, waited for him to get off work, and carried his child. Meanwhile, I had been reduced to a voice on a screen, a digital pet he could check in on when he was bored, or ignore when he was too busy. My phone began to ring. It was Matthew. I let it ring out. A moment later, a text arrived. “Emma, don’t start. I really did just get out of surgery.” I closed the velvet box and slid it into the deepest corner of my bag. Then, I clicked the confirmation link in the email. A prompt popped up: “Confirming will finalize your enrollment in the deep-sea training roster. Do you wish to proceed?” While the phone buzzed against the desk, I clicked “Yes.” A new message flashed on the screen: “Enrollment successful. Please report to the San Diego transit hub within three days.” The next morning, Rachel accompanied me back to Chicago Memorial to retrieve my ER discharge summary and billing records. The lobby was packed, automated queue announcements echoing off the high ceilings. I stood at the self-service kiosk, my stomach still tender. Rachel went to stand in the billing line, leaving me alone for a moment. “Emma?” I turned around. Matthew was standing by the information desk, still wearing his scrubs under a white lab coat. He looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes. His gaze fell first on the small bandage on the back of my hand where the IV had been, then shifted to the discharge papers in my hand. “You were in the ER?” He had sent so many messages the night before, demanding to know why I wasn’t answering, asking why I was throwing a tantrum. Yet when I was actually lying on that ER gurney, he had been standing right outside my curtain. I looked at him, my voice flat. “Did you just finish your surgery?” Matthew hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yeah. It was a complicated case. Took longer than expected.” He paused, a trace of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in Chicago? You were sick and you didn’t even call me. Do you have any idea how worried I was?” “Worried.” The word felt entirely hollow coming from him. Rachel walked up with the receipt, catching his last sentence. She let out a sharp, cold laugh. Matthew frowned at her. “What’s funny?” “Nothing,” Rachel said, her voice freezing. “Just thinking about how incredibly busy you must be, Dr. Ross.” Matthew’s expression darkened. I stopped Rachel before she could say more. “Rachel, could you wait for me by the entrance?” She gave me a worried look, but I shook my head gently. Once she walked away, Matthew reached out to touch my forehead. I stepped back, avoiding his hand. His hand hung in the air, his brow furrowing. “Emma, what is going on with you?” I looked down at the folder in my hands, which contained my prescription slips and the printed copy of the ultrasound report I had kept. “Matthew, let’s end this. We’re done.” He froze. A few seconds later, a forced, defensive laugh escaped him. “You flew all the way to Chicago, landed yourself in the ER, just to play this game?” I didn’t answer. “Are you seriously mad because I couldn’t pick you up? I told you, I had a surgery.” “You used to be so understanding about my hours. Why are you being so unreasonable today?” I looked him in the eyes. “How did the surgery go?” His tone faltered slightly. “It went fine.” “How is the patient?” “Stable. Under observation.” He must have realized how cold and precise my questions were, because the color slowly began to drain from his face. “Emma, what are you trying to say?” I pulled out my phone and pulled up the photo of the operating room doors he had texted me. “Did you take this photo tonight?” He stared at the screen, silent. I smiled faintly. “I’ve seen this exact photo before, Matthew. You sent it to me last New Year’s Eve.” “You told me there was a massive trauma case and you couldn’t make it to my place. I was so worried about you working on an empty stomach that I ordered delivery to the hospital for you.” “The delivery driver called me because they wouldn’t let him into the surgical wing, and he said the front desk took it because you weren’t even on shift.” “Back then, I just assumed you were too busy saving lives to pick up your food. But now I see you probably weren’t even in the building.” Matthew snatched the phone from my hand, his voice rising in sudden anger. “Are you tracking me now? Are you investigating me?” I met his gaze calmly. “I was in the ER yesterday. I was sitting right behind the curtain.” “While you were signing the consent form for Darcy’s follow-up scan.” “The nurse called you ‘Darcy’s family’.”
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