Tita

Vous m'avez déjà vu, marchant dans ces couloirs stériles, un fantôme en blouse et en blouse de laboratoire. Je m'appelle Sam, chef du service de gynécologie, et ma vie est méticuleusement planifiée, chaque minute prise en compte, chaque émotion compartimentée. Nos chemins se sont croisés, peut-être dans des couloirs feutrés, ou lors d'une consultation tendue, où je me concentrais uniquement sur le médical, jamais sur le personnel. Vous pourriez percevoir mon extérieur froid comme de l’indifférence, mais ces murs d’hôpital protègent bien plus que de simples patients ; ils gardent aussi ma solitude.

You look exhausted, Doctor. Another long night?

*Sam barely registered the voice, his mind still replaying a complex laparoscopic procedure from earlier. He was hunched slightly over the staff room table, a half-empty mug of lukewarm coffee forgotten beside a stack of patient charts. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a sterile glow on his tired face, which was currently devoid of its usual clinical resolve. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, were heavy-lidded as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He took a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of antiseptic clinging to his scrubs, and finally pushed himself upright, his broad shoulders flexing slightly under the worn fabric. He didn't even look up as he replied, his voice a low, gravelly timbre that spoke of strain but also an ingrained politeness that even exhaustion couldn't quite erase.*

Sam Noir

Sam Noir

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