The Places We Carried

NOVA

The hospital always smells like citrus disinfectant and warm plastic—clean in a way that feels dishonest. Nothing about grieving children is clean.

I sign the last form with a hand that won’t stay steady.

The pen scratches across the page—Attending Physician Signature—and when the ink settles, so does the final, impossible truth. The hospital corridor hums with fluorescent light, machines beeping behind closed curtains, nurses speaking quietly at their stations, but everything feels muffled, like the world has been wrapped.

She hands the clipboard back to the nurse.

“Take your time,” the nurse murmurs, gentle in that practiced hospital way. I nod, but she doesn’t trust her voice enough to answer.

I stepped into the stairwell instead of the waiting room. It’s empty, cold, quiet—exactly the kind of space grief tries to fill. I sit on the third step, elbows on her knees, face in her hands.

For twenty-nine years I have been controlled, wrapped in skin: steady, calm, unshakeable. I know how to deliver infants in emergencies, how to keep a pulse steady with her own hands, and how to guide terrified families through the worst moments of their lives.

But I cannot keep my own chest from caving in.

The first sob hits so sharply she leans forward like it punched me. Then another, and another, until I gasped, trying to breathe through a lifetime of keeping everything together.

“Raven,” I whispered, the name shattering on her tongue.

Twelve letters. My whole world.

My hands tremble as she presses them against her eyes. I tried to remember the countless times I told Raven it was going to be okay, that I would figure it out, that I would handle it. I had meant it every time.

But I could not fix this.

I drew a shaking breath. Her throat burns.

You’re a doctor, I tell myself. You did everything right. You did everything you could.

The stairwell doesn’t care. The universe doesn’t care.

And I —after years of refusing to break—finally let myself fall apart.

RAVEN

I don’t remember most of the funeral—just the cold.

Not the weather. The way everyone looked at us, like we were something broken they didn’t want to hold. Black coats brushing past. Hands patting my shoulder because they didn’t know what else to do. Voices whispering my name like it might shatter if they said it normally.

I stand there staring at the two caskets like I’m supposed to feel something huge. Something dramatic. But my chest is just… empty. Not numb. Just hollow, like someone scooped everything out and forgot to put anything back.

Then Nova’s hand slides around my shoulders.

Her fingers are trembling. She tries to hide it, but I can feel it through the thin fabric of my dress. She pulls me a little closer, not enough to crush me—just enough to keep me anchored.

I wait for her to cry.

She doesn’t.

Her jaw is clenched, not in anger, but in that way she does when she’s trying to keep ten different emotions locked behind her ribs. She’s staring straight ahead, eyes dry, back straight, like she’s the one holding up the entire sky so it doesn’t fall on us.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers. Her voice cracks a little, even though she tries to keep it steady. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you.”

I believe her instantly. I don’t know why. Maybe because she sounds like she’s making a promise to herself, not to me.

People keep walking up with soft voices and sad faces, but Nova keeps her arm around me the entire time. Not tightening, not loosening—just steady.

And even though I don’t cry, even though my hands won’t stop shaking, her warmth makes the cold feel less sharp.

Like maybe we’re not completely alone.

Like maybe we’ll survive this.

NOVA

Raven brings it up on a Tuesday afternoon, sunlight flooding the kitchen so brightly it makes her blue eyes glow like glass. She’s sitting cross-legged on the counter again, curly black hair pulled into a messy bun that keeps slipping, one ringlet falling over her cheek every time she leans forward.

I’m sorting her meds into the weekly pill box. It’s the sound of the plastic clicking that finally makes her speak.

“Nova,” she says, too gently. That’s the first warning.

“Mm?” I don’t look up. If I do, she’ll see the bruise-colored circles under my eyes from being up half the night reading medical papers, researching ways to slow her disease. Like always.

“I want to travel.”

I stop mid-click.

There’s a full heartbeat where the house goes silent. Even the fridge hum feels muted. Slowly, I look up.

She’s studying me—sharp features, bright expressions, like she’s trying to smile her way through the fear of how I might react. She kicks the cabinet softly with her heel.

“Not… someday.” Raven swallows. “Now.”

My stomach twists. “Rae… you know how much strain—”

“I know.” She cuts me off, but her voice is small. “I’m not stupid. I just… I don’t want to wait until I can’t.”

Her fingers toy with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, the one she stole yesterday. “Nova, please. I’m tired of hospitals being the only place I go.”

I try to stay steady.

“You’re shaking,” she says softly.

“I’m not.”

I am.

She slides off the counter, bare feet brushing against mine. She’s shorter than me, but she always stands like she’s taller. “I want to see things,” she whispers. “Real things. Before…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

Her curls graze my shoulder as she leans into me, and I realize that for once, she’s the one holding me up.

My chest aches. My throat burns. And finally—finally—I nod.

“Okay,” I breathe. “We’ll go wherever you want.”

Raven’s smile is instant and blinding, like someone switched the world back on.

It just started.

NOVA

The airport smells like coffee and disinfectant, and Raven is glowing like she’s about to walk onto a stage instead of a plane. Her curls bounce with every step, and she keeps pulling me toward the gate even though we’re absurdly early.

“Nova, you’re walking like we’re going to an execution,” she laughs.

“I’m walking like someone who triple-checked your meds,” I mutter, gripping the backpack straps so hard my knuckles ache.

She bumps my shoulder. “Relax. For once. Please?”

I will try. I really do. But every announcement, every cough from a stranger, every moment she sways on her feet makes my chest tighten.

Then she does the thing she always does: she makes it impossible not to soften.

Raven loops her arm through mine, rests her cheek briefly on my shoulder. “You’re doing this with me. That’s enough.”

Her voice is light, but her grip isn’t.

And I realize—she’s scared too.

RAVEN

I was ten, too dizzy to stand after practice. The room tilted; my vision went fuzzy around the edges. Before I could hit the floor, Nova’s arms were already around me.

“Hey—hey, I’ve got you,” she whispered, breath shaky.

I remember her straight blond hair falling forward as she lifted me, not caring that other parents stared. She was fourteen and small for her age, but she carried me like I weighed nothing.

And even as my vision faded, I saw her eyes—brown, terrified, shining—and I knew she wasn’t strong because she never broke.

She was strong because she did break. Quietly. After everyone stopped watching.

NOVA

We are at our first destination. Shibuya is loud enough to swallow me whole—lights flashing, crosswalk chimes ringing, people moving like currents in a river. Raven loves it. She keeps running ahead, snapping pictures, her black curls bouncing as neon signs paint her face pink and blue.

“Rae, slow down!” I called.

She doesn’t.

When I finally catch up, she’s leaning against a street pole, breathing too fast.

My heart spikes. “Raven—are you dizzy?”

“I’m fine,” she snaps, brushing my hand away. “Stop acting like I’m five.”

The words hit harder than they should.

“I’m not,” I say quietly. “I just—”

“Just what? Hover? Control everything? You don’t even let me walk ten steps without checking if I’ll collapse!”

People stare. Raven doesn’t care; she’s too wound up, too bright and brittle.

“You dragged me around Tokyo without telling me you felt sick,” I fired back. “I’m not a mind reader.”

She looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t want you treating me like… like a countdown.”

The silence between us is sharp.

She’s crying. I hate when she hides it, because she always turns her head like she wants me to pretend she’s fine.

I reach out—but she flinches.

And right then, it hits me:

She’s not angry at me. She’s angry at her body.

RAVEN

I was twelve, watching kids my age sprint across the soccer field while I sat on the grass with another headache. Nova dropped her backpack next to me and sat without a word.

“You can go play,” I mumbled.

She shrugged. “I’d rather stay with you.”

“You always stay with me.”

“Yeah,” she said simply. “So what?”

I didn’t understand it then—the quiet sacrifices. The birthday parties she skipped, the clubs she quit, the hours she spent learning how to manage my episodes.

Now, staring at her in the Tokyo crowd, chest tight, I finally do.

Nova didn’t give up her childhood.

She gave it to me.

NOVA

The garden is so quiet it feels unreal. No crowds, no neon lights, no rush. Just the slow shuffle of koi in the pond and the low hum of cicadas hiding in the trees.

Raven sinks onto a wooden bench like she’s melting into it, exhaustion written everywhere—her shoulders, her shaky breaths, the way her curls cling to her forehead. And for the first time since we left home, she doesn’t try to hide it.

“You okay?” I ask softly.

She gives a tiny smile. “Define ‘okay.’”

I sit beside her, leaving enough space for her to choose if she wants closeness. She closes the space instantly, leaning her head on my shoulder like it belongs there.

Her blue eyes reflect the water, bright but tired. Too tired.

“This place is perfect,” she murmurs. “I’m glad this is our last stop.”

My chest tightens. I pretend I didn’t notice her choice of words. “We’ll come back someday.”

She doesn’t call me out. She doesn’t argue. She just slips her cold fingers into mine, and that scares me more than anything—she’s always warm.

Birds scatter from a nearby tree, and Raven laughs softly at the sudden flutter. It sounds thinner than usual, like someone turned the volume down. But it’s still her laugh.

She watches the koi swim in lazy circles. “Do you ever wonder,” she says quietly, “if life would’ve been different if Mom and Dad were still here?”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

“Do you think you’d… I don’t know… have lived more? Instead of spending your whole life watching over me?”

I turned to her. “Raven. I didn’t lose anything.”

She lifts a skeptical eyebrow.

“I mean it,” I say. “My life didn’t shrink around you. It grew around you. You’re the reason I ever looked outward in the first place.”

Something in her expression softens—something deep, old, unspoken.

She squeezes my hand. “You always say the right thing.”

“Not always.” My voice shakes. “But I’m trying.”

We sit there as the light shifts from gold to amber, her breathing slow, my heart racing. And for once, the silence doesn’t feel like something to fill.

It feels like something to hold.

It happens in the middle of the night.

Not with sirens.

Not in a hospital.

Not with chaos or dramatic last words.

Just… slowly.

We’re still in the little temple guesthouse. Raven insisted on “one more night,” and I didn’t fight her. I never fought her near the end.

She’s lying beside me on the futon, curled toward me, her breath brushing my collarbone. For a while, I think she’s dreaming—her face is peaceful in a way I haven’t seen since we were kids. Her curls fan out over the pillow like a dark halo.

Then her breathing shifts.

Not tighter.

Not gasping.

Just… thinner.

Like something in her is quietly letting go.

“Rae?” I whisper.

Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn’t open them. She just leans closer, pressing her forehead into my shoulder like she’s cold.

“I’m right here,” I say, brushing a curl from her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her fingers twitch around mine. I feel the weakness in it—the fading. She’s been losing strength for months, but this is different. This feels like slipping.

“Nova…” she breathes. It’s barely a sound.

“I’m here,” I say again, even though my voice is breaking. “It’s okay.”

She exhales, a soft trembling breath. Then another.

The next one doesn’t come.

My body reacts before my brain does.

I sit up.

I shake her gently.

“Raven.”

No response.

“Raven.”

Louder.

My hands tremble violently.

I press my ear to her chest.

Nothing.

The world doesn’t crash.

It just goes unbearably quiet.

I pull her into my arms—her limp weight terrifying and familiar all at once—and I feel something inside me splinter so sharply I can’t breathe.

Her hair is still soft.

Her face is still warm.

But she’s gone.

My tears fall silently at first—like my body is confused, like it doesn’t know whether to break or hold itself together.

Then the sobs come.

Ugly. Raw.

Every sound I’ve swallowed for years—every fear, every hope, every promise—rips out of me.

I hold her until the sun rises, because letting go feels impossible.

Because she was my whole world.

And suddenly, the world is empty.

NOVA (PRESENT DAY)

I calmed down after some time. The stairwell at the hospital always smells faintly like old coffee and floor cleaner. I come here when everything feels too loud—when rooms blur together, when parents look at me with hope I’m terrified to break, when the weight of Raven’s memory presses too hard against my ribs.

Tonight, I’m sitting two steps down from the landing, head in my hands, trying to breathe past the heaviness. I can’t cry. The one who knows how to hold other people together.

Footsteps echo softly above me.

“I can turn around if you want the stairs to yourself,” a voice says.

I look up. A man stands a few steps away—dark hair, tired eyes, holding two coffee cups like he’s afraid to spill either. He looks kind. Like he’s used to being quiet in loud places.

“You’re fine,” I managed.

He hesitates, then sits a step higher than me, leaving a respectful space between us. “Rough night?”

I nod, wiping my face quickly. “I’m fine,” I lied.

He studies me—not invading, just present. “I don’t think you have to be fine all the time.”

It hits harder than it should. I huff out a breath. “You’re a stranger. You can’t say things that accurately.”

He smiles softly. “I’m Alec. Now I’m slightly less of a stranger.”

I almost laughed. Almost. “Nova.”

He sets one coffee cup beside me. “You look like you need this more than I do.”

And for the first time in a long time, I let someone sit in the quiet with me.

NOVA

I don’t remember getting back to the guesthouse. I don’t remember packing our bags or calling the emergency contacts the travel agency insisted we list. Everything after Raven’s last breath is a blur—sounds muffled, colors dull, my hands shaking so violently I couldn’t zip her suitcase.

But I remember the moment they took her from me.

A gentle knock. A soft apology in Japanese. Hands that weren’t mine lifting her body. Her curls hide half her face. The blanket tucked around her like she might still be cold.

I followed them to the door, but when they stepped outside, I stopped. My feet wouldn’t move. My lungs wouldn’t work. My throat opened but no sound came out—just a dry, cracking ache.

They asked if I wanted to come. I couldn’t answer.

She disappeared down the hallway, and it felt like watching the last piece of my world being carried away.

After that, I sat on the floor of the empty room, her bracelet in my hand, and I cried until my vision blurred. Until my body shook. Until my heart felt scraped hollow.

I whispered her name until it didn’t sound like a word anymore.

I told her I was sorry.

I told her I loved her.

I told her I didn’t know how to live without her.

And then—I forced myself to stand. Because she would have hated seeing me collapse. Because she deserved someone who kept going.

Because she asked me, once, to live a life that wasn’t just waiting for her to fall apart.

So I did.

NOVA

I unlock the apartment door, exhaustion still clinging to me like a second skin. The day has been long—six patients, three emergencies, one new diagnosis that hit too close to home. Sometimes I wonder if choosing pediatric neurology was brave or self-punishing.

“Hey.”

That single word loosens something in my chest.

I kick off my shoes and sink beside him. He pulls a blanket over my legs without asking, then cups my cheek lightly. “You okay?”

I rest my forehead against his shoulder. “Some days are harder.”

“I know.” His thumb brushes my hair. “But you’re here. And I’m here.”

His presence is warm, grounding. A quiet place to land.

My eyes drift to the framed photo on the shelf—Raven laughing under cherry blossoms. Her curls are wild, her eyes bright.

Alec follows my gaze and squeezes my hand. “She’d be proud of you.”

“I hope so,” I whisper.

He presses a soft kiss to my temple. “I know so.”

And for the first time since Raven’s death, I feel it—not the absence of pain, but the presence of something gentler. Something like a second beginning.

Something like home.