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Jeung Yoonchae had mastered the art of functioning.
She woke up at five every morning, her body responding before her mind did. Teeth brushed. Hair tied back. Scrubs folded with mechanical precision. Breakfast eaten standing up, never tasted. She memorized bus schedules and hospital corridors and the way fluorescent lights hummed overhead like they were alive. She knew which elevator lagged between floors and which nurses preferred coffee with cream versus sugar. She knew how to smile just enough to seem polite, how to nod at attendings, how to ask questions without sounding unsure.
What she didn’t know anymore was how to feel.
Functional depression, the therapist had called it, months ago, before Yoonchae stopped going. “You’re doing everything you’re supposed to,” the therapist had said gently. “You’re just not present in any of it.”
Yoonchae hadn’t corrected her. Present felt like an impossible word. Existing was easier.
The hospital internship was supposed to help. Structure. Purpose. A reason to keep moving. And it did—on the surface. She was reliable. Efficient. Quiet. She took vitals, delivered charts, assisted nurses, shadowed doctors. She learned how to keep her hands steady even when patients cried. She learned how to detach without seeming cold.
But at night, when she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, everything caught up to her all at once—an overwhelming sense of emptiness pressing down on her chest like gravity itself.
She wasn’t sad, exactly.
She was hollow.
⸻
Yoonchae met Megan Skiendiel on a Thursday afternoon in early autumn.
Room 614.
She remembered the number because she would come to know it too well.
Megan was sitting upright in bed, knees drawn slightly toward her chest, a book resting unopened in her lap. She had an oxygen cannula tucked under her nose and a faint crease between her brows, like she was concentrating on staying present. Her hair—light brown, slightly wavy—was pulled into a messy bun that had clearly been redone several times.
“You’re not my nurse,” Megan said as Yoonchae stepped inside.
It wasn’t accusatory. Just observant.
“I’m an intern,” Yoonchae replied automatically, checking the chart. “I’m here to—”
“You don’t have to explain,” Megan said. She smiled, small but genuine. “I’ve been here long enough to tell the difference.”
Yoonchae paused.
Most patients didn’t smile like that. Most patients were tired, irritated, scared. Megan looked… resigned, maybe, but not unkind. There was a quiet humor in her eyes, something patient and knowing.
“I’m Yoonchae,” she said, after a moment.
“Megan.” She shifted slightly, wincing before she could hide it. “You can do your intern stuff. I won’t bite.”
Yoonchae almost smiled.
Almost.
Megan had pulmonary hypertension—severe, progressive, the kind that didn’t show itself all at once. It stole breath slowly, methodically, turning everyday activities into calculated risks. Walking too fast. Laughing too hard. Standing too long.
She had been admitted for medication adjustments and monitoring, but Yoonchae quickly learned that Megan was not new to hospitals. She knew the routines. The language. The way doctors spoke around difficult truths instead of directly at them.
“You get used to being watched,” Megan said once, as Yoonchae wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm. “Monitors, nurses, machines. Everyone tracking your numbers like they’re more important than how you feel.”
Yoonchae met her eyes. “How do you feel?”
Megan blinked, surprised.
Then she shrugged. “Tired. Mostly.”
It was the first time Yoonchae felt something stir inside her chest in weeks.
⸻
Yoonchae began volunteering to check on Room 614 more often than necessary.
She told herself it was because Megan was stable and cooperative, easy to work with. She told herself it was educational. She told herself a lot of things.
The truth was simpler and more terrifying: Megan made her feel less empty.
Their conversations started small. Books. Music. Megan liked old movies and sad songs with hopeful endings. Yoonchae admitted she hadn’t watched much of anything lately.
“You should,” Megan said. “Even bad movies make time pass.”
Time passed strangely with Megan. Hours slipped by unnoticed, conversations drifting into comfortable silences. Megan never pushed. She didn’t ask invasive questions. She just… existed, warm and real in a way Yoonchae hadn’t realized she’d been craving.
“You’re very quiet,” Megan said one evening.
Yoonchae shrugged. “I talk when I need to.”
“And do you need to?”
The question lingered.
“I don’t know,” Yoonchae said honestly.
Megan smiled softly. “That’s okay.”
Something about the acceptance in her voice made Yoonchae’s chest ache.
⸻
It took Yoonchae longer to realize what she was feeling than it should have.
At first, it was just awareness, of Megan’s smile, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the warmth of her hand when their fingers brushed by accident. Then it was anticipation, looking forward to shifts, to Room 614, to the sound of Megan’s voice saying her name.
And then it was fear.
This isn’t normal, she told herself. This isn’t professional. This isn’t allowed.
And deeper, quieter: This isn’t right.
The thoughts made her nauseous. She had never dated. Never really considered it. She’d assumed, vaguely, that someday she would. With a man. Because that was how things worked. Because that was expected.
Because anything else felt… complicated.
She began pulling away without meaning to. Shorter visits. More distance. Megan noticed immediately.
“Did I do something?” Megan asked one afternoon, her voice careful.
“No,” Yoonchae said too quickly. “I’ve just been busy.”
Megan studied her, then nodded. “Okay.”
But the warmth between them cooled, and Yoonchae felt the loss like a physical ache.
⸻
Megan’s condition worsened over the next few weeks.
Subtly at first, longer recovery times, more oxygen, faint tremors in her hands. Then more noticeably. She tired easily. She stopped joking as much.
Yoonchae watched helplessly from the sidelines, the intern title suddenly feeling like a cruel joke. She could chart symptoms. She could relay information. She couldn’t fix anything.
One night, during a particularly long shift, Yoonchae found Megan awake, staring out the window.
“I don’t think I’m getting out this time,” Megan said quietly.
Yoonchae’s throat tightened. “You can’t know that.”
Megan smiled sadly. “I know my body.”
Silence stretched between them.
“I’m scared,” Megan admitted.
The confession cracked something open inside Yoonchae.
Without thinking, she reached out, resting her hand over Megan’s. Megan didn’t pull away. Her grip was weak but warm.
“I’m here,” Yoonchae whispered.
Megan turned her head, eyes shining. “You always are.”
The realization hit Yoonchae all at once, sharp and undeniable.
She loved her.
⸻
It took weeks—and several panic-filled nights—for Yoonchae to accept that truth.
Internalized fear clawed at her, telling her it was wrong, telling her it would ruin everything, telling her she was selfish for wanting more from someone who was already losing so much.
But Megan never asked for anything she couldn’t give.
It was Yoonchae who finally broke.
“I think I like you,” she blurted one evening, heart racing. “More than I should.”
Megan laughed softly, then immediately winced. “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out.”
Yoonchae stared at her. “You knew?”
“I hoped,” Megan corrected. “But I didn’t want to push.”
Yoonchae swallowed hard. “I’m scared.”
“So am I,” Megan said. “But I’d rather be scared with you than alone.”
They didn’t kiss. Not then. They just held hands, fingers interlaced, breathing together like it was something sacred.
For the first time in months, Yoonchae felt alive.
⸻
Happiness came in small, fragile moments.
Shared smiles. Inside jokes. Quiet confessions whispered late at night. Megan teasing Yoonchae for overthinking everything. Yoonchae bringing Megan her favorite tea, memorizing how she took it.
Yoonchae laughed more. Ate more. Slept better. The hollow space inside her didn’t disappear, but it softened, filled slowly with warmth and meaning.
Megan noticed everything.
“You’re different,” she said one day.
“Better?” Yoonchae asked nervously.
Megan smiled. “Brighter.”
The word made Yoonchae’s chest ache.
⸻
The decline was inevitable.
Megan grew weaker. Conversations shortened. Holding hands became exhausting. The doctors used careful language, gentle voices.
Yoonchae stayed anyway.
On Megan’s last night, the hospital room was quiet, lights dimmed. Yoonchae sat beside the bed, Megan’s hand resting loosely in hers.
“I’m glad I met you,” Megan whispered.
Yoonchae’s vision blurred. “Me too.”
“You taught me how to be happy again,” Yoonchae said. “Even just for a little while.”
Megan smiled faintly. “That was always enough.”
She passed quietly, breath fading like a candle in the dark.
⸻
Grief didn’t come all at once.
It came in waves. In empty chairs. In unused mugs. In the silence of Room 614.
Yoonchae cried when she needed to. She talked when she could. She stayed.
She finished her internship. She kept going.
Because Megan had loved her living.
And Yoonchae intended to honor that.
She carried Megan with her, not as pain, but as proof.
Proof that she could feel. That she could love. That she could stay.
And for the first time, that was enough.