When I stepped out, my scrubs were damp. My neck stiff. I was thinking about caffeine.
Then I heard it.
A laugh.
His laugh.
I stopped.
No.
I turned down the maternity hallway.
And there he was.
Daniel.
Standing outside Room 614.
Still in the same dark coat.
But he wasn’t alone.
He was holding a newborn.
Wrapped in pink.
Careful. Protective. Like it was natural.
Then I saw her.
Blonde. Pale. Smiling through exhaustion like she had just won something.
Daniel leaned toward her.
“She has your eyes.”
My stomach dropped.
The woman reached for his hand.
Like it was hers.
Like it always had been.
And everything inside me went quiet.
Not shock.
Not confusion.
Clarity.
I stepped back into the shadows.
No one saw me.
Daniel didn’t.
The baby didn’t.
His life continued like I had never existed.
And in that moment, I understood something worse than anger:
This wasn’t new.
This was built.
I walked away without saying a word.
Later, that would surprise me.
Because I speak when things break.
But this?
This wasn’t something you fix.
This was something you document.
So I became methodical.
At the end of the hall, I leaned against a vending machine.
My hands were steady.
That was the strangest part.
I pulled out my phone.