She saw him again. This was the third time that day. Once outside the bookshop, then near the interchange, and now again—shadowing her footsteps just far enough to make her suspicious.
Enough. It was either now or never. She turned a sharp corner, leaned against the wall, and waited. The footsteps grew louder. Closer. As he came around the bend, she stepped out in front of him—fast, firm, no warning.
“Why are you following me?” she barked. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“Argh!” he gasped, stumbling back. “You gave me a shock!”
“Good. I should. I’m asking again—why are you following me? Who are you? What do you want?” Her voice was firm now, her body already positioned to defend. “I have a black belt in karate, okay? I can kick you flat right now and drag you to the police station. Did you see the sign? It’s just around the corner.” She took a step forward, narrowing the gap. “Now talk!”
He put both hands up, cornered against the wall. “I—I want to talk to you.”
“Talk? About what? I’m right here. Start talking.” He stared at her, still catching his breath.
“Don’t you remember me?” he asked, his voice shaky.
“No,” she said bluntly.
“I was a patient. At the hospital.”
“Which hospital is this?” she shot back.
“SGH. You’re a nurse there. I’ve seen you.” She gave a slow nod, suspicious.
“Okay. Go on.”
“I was admitted once. You probably don’t remember. But I… I was the one with the arm sling. I was sitting at the lobby one evening, smoking. You came up to me and scolded me—asked who did the sling. I said it was a student nurse, and you said, ‘It’s all wrong,’ and redid it yourself. Then you told me my ward nurse was looking for me.” Noorie blinked. He continued, “But when I got back to the ward and asked the nurse, they said they hadn’t called for me. So… I’ve been wondering why you said that. I saw your name tag that day. I remembered your name. I just wanted to ask.”
She tilted her head, her posture softening slightly. “What time was this?”
“Around 7:30 p.m.”
“Then it makes sense. That’s the time when nurses start taking vitals. Maybe I saw you wandering in the lobby and thought the ward staff was looking for you. It’s standard practice. If I sent you back, I must’ve had a reason.”
“I suppose that’s true…” She sighed. “Honestly, I don’t remember. I do that kind of thing all the time—if I see something off, I just stop and fix it. Arm slings, bandages, dressings… I correct them. But I don’t always remember the faces.”
He smiled, just a little. “Well, I remembered yours. You’re Noorie, right?” She nodded.
“And you?”
“I’m Michael.”
And then—suddenly—he became a regular presence. At first, it seemed harmless. A brief encounter at the bus stop. Then again, on the bus. And again, a few days later, at the interchange. But it didn’t stop there. More often now, she’d find him at the stadium.
Always with the same story—he just happened to be there for a walk, saw her sitting alone after her usual rounds, and thought he’d join. Coincidence? Maybe. But the pattern started forming too clearly to ignore.
He seemed to know which bus she was taking. When she would be at the interchange. What time she’d arrive at the stadium. It wasn’t random anymore—it was intentional. Calculated, even.
Still, Noorie didn’t push him away. Not yet. His presence, while suspicious at times, was also... comforting. After a long solitary walk, after the weight of work, family, and everything else she carried, it was nice to sit down and have someone to talk to.
Someone who didn’t ask too many questions. Someone who made her laugh. Michael was good at conversation. A chatterbox, sometimes. But not in an overbearing way. He had a way of slipping into casual topics and winding them around into humor.
She enjoyed the company. And she told herself it was harmless. But she also reminded herself, again and again—this must stay what it is. Just coincidence. Just casual conversation. Nothing more. Because it was unethical, in her eyes, to form a personal relationship with a patient. That had always been her principle. Draw the line. Keep it clean. She had followed that rule all her life. Until Lukman came along.
She had just bought a copy of The Fountainhead. Ayn Rand’s words were already circling her mind before she even left the bookstore. She was eager to dive into it—to feel that quiet intoxication of thinking deeply, freely, with no interruptions.
Spotting a nearby café, she slipped in, chose a table by the window, and settled down. The city moved on the other side of the glass—cars, pedestrians, noise. But none of it mattered. She opened the book, turned to the first page, and disappeared into Rand’s world. Objectivism. The ideal man. The freedom of thought. It was invigorating.
As her mind began to drift deeper, she paused. Let her eyes wander. The street outside caught her attention—the way the people walked, the stories written across their faces. She let her thoughts roam. The book had a way of doing that—loosening mental boundaries, allowing her to observe rather than just pass through. That was when she noticed him. A man at the next table, watching her. She looked back—straight into his eyes. He smiled. She returned it politely, looked away. But something about him tugged at her memory. A vague familiarity. I’ve seen that face before... but where? She tried to place it. Nothing surfaced. No match, her inner voice replied, like a computer search returning empty.
She went back to her book. But moments later— “Excuse me.” She looked up. The same man, now standing at her table.
“Yes?” she said, cautious but polite.
“Don’t you remember me?” Not again... she sighed inwardly.
“No. I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“You’re a nurse, right? At SGH? I was one of your patients.” She nodded slowly.
“Okay…”
“Bed 34?” he offered, trying to jog her memory. She shook her head.
“Bed 34… sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Lukman,” he said, hopeful. Still nothing. Then, without warning, he lifted his shirt slightly and turned sideways, revealing a long, curved scar stretching from his back around to the front of his ribcage.
“Remember this?” She stared at it. It was a clean scar, healing well. Still red at the edges. But unmistakably the work of a chest procedure. It stirred something in her—a feeling, a recognition that wasn’t in the face, but in the wound. Scars never lie. She felt the strange urge to trace it with her fingers—to study it. To connect the touch to her memory. But she caught herself. Not here. Not in public.
People were watching. Still, her mind started to flip through the pages of her internal archive. Slowly, it came back. Male. 30 years old. Bed 34. Spontaneous pneumothorax…
The details fell into place. “You’re the one with the broncho-pleural fistula. You had a chest tube. Then surgery.” His face lit up.
“Yes! That’s me. Wow. Amazing how a scar can trigger everything.” She smiled, this time genuinely.
“I’m sorry. I don’t always remember faces. But I remember wounds.”
“You remembered mine better than I do.” He glanced around.
“Are you alone? Mind if I join you?”
“Yes. Sure—please do.” He grabbed his cup of coffee and slid into the chair across from her.
“I remember you well,” he said. “You were really cruel to me in the ward.”
“I was?” she raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Yes! You made me walk to the toilet with a tube sticking out of my chest.” She laughed.
“I do that to all my patients. Your legs and arms were working fine. You were just sulking like a spoilt brat” He grinned.
“Exactly. That’s why I remember you.” He told her that he’d returned to the hospital several times for follow-ups, hoping to see her. But each time, she wasn’t on duty.
Eventually, someone told him she had gone for further training. Their conversation flowed. Hours passed unnoticed. He teased her, and she let him. She laughed more than she had in weeks.
It felt… easy. They exchanged numbers before they left. The next day, he called. They chatted again. Days later, she agreed to go out for a movie with him. And that was how it all began.
Chpt 17 / 36
